EX   LIBRIS 


SA3ST  CARLOS    I/GO 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


THE    VAGABONDS, 


AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


JOHN    TOWNSEND    TROWBRIDGE. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 


FIELDS,  OSGUOU,  &  CO. 


1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  i86q.  bv 

FIELDS,    OSGOOD,     &    CO., 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  VAGABONDS 1 

THE  FROZEN  HARBOR 7 

OUR  LADY  .  . 17 

|  THE  MILL-POND 21 

THE  RESTORED  PICTURE 24 

MY  BROTHER  BEN 28 

I  THE  PEWEE  .  .  . 33 

BEYOND 39 

MIDWINTER    ..........  42 

MIDSUMMER  .  »>•" 45 

i  MY  COMRADE  AND  I 48 

THE  WOLVES  ,  ' •  ..  ..''...  .  .  52 

LA  CANTATRICE  .  .  . 57 

BKAUTY 61 

SERVICE 64 

AT  SEA 69 

REAL  ESTATE 71 

THE  MASKERS 74 

BY  THE  RIVER 77 

THE  NAME  IN  THE  BARK  .  83 


iv  CONTENTS. 

LYRICS  OF  THE  WAR. 

THE  LAST  RALLY .        .89 

THE  COLOR-BEAREB 94 

THE  JAGUAR  HUNT 98 

THE  SWORD  OF  BOLIVAR 102 

LIGHTER  PIECES. 

DARIUS  GREEN  AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHETE        .        .        .  113 

WATCHING  THE  CROWS 127 

EVENING  AT  THE  FARM 132 

THE  WILD  GOOSE 135 

GREEN  APPLES 141 

STRAWBERRIES             .        .        .        .                 .        .        .  145 

THE  SUMMER  SQUALL 148 

CORN  HARVEST 153 

THE  LITTLE  THEATRE 157 

THE  CHARCOALMAN 160 

THE  WONDERFUL  SACK 163 


THE   VAGABONDS. 

TTTE  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger  's  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you  scamp !' 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen,  —  mind  your  eye! 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp!  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we  've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank  —  and  starved  —  together. 

We  've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there  's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings ! 

1  A 


2  THE   VAGABONDS. 

No,  thank  ye,  Sir,  —  I  never  drink ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — 
Are  n't  we,  Roger?  —  See  him  wink!  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He  's  thirsty,  too,  —  see  him  nod  his  head? 

What  a  pity,  Sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk! 
He  understands  every  word  that  's  said,  — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  Sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I  've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I  've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here  's  to  you,  Sir !)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He  '11  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master ! 


THE   VAGABONDS.  3 

No,  Sir  I  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin! 

By  George!    it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  1 
That  is,  there  's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter ! 

We  '11  have  some  music,  if  you  're  willing, 

And  Roger  (hem !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  Sir ! ) 
Shall  march  a  little  —  Start,  you  villain  ! 

Paws  up  !    Eyes  front !    Salute  your  officer  ! 
'Bout  face  !    Attention  !    Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see ! )     Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle, 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier! 

March !    Halt !    Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that  's  five;    he  's  mighty  knowing! 

The  night  's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  Sir!    I'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is  going!  — 

Some  brandy,  —  thank  you,  —  there  !  —  it  passes  ! 


4  THE   VAGABONDS. 

Why  not  reform  ?    That  's  easily  said ; 

But  I  've  gone  through  -such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach  's  past  reform ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I  'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  Sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  —  but  I  took  to  drink;  — 

The  same  old  story  ;   you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features,  — 

You  need  n't  laugh,  Sir;   they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  : 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men ! 

If  you  had  seen  HER,  so  fair  and  young, 
Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast! 

If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 
When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have  guessed 


THE  VAGABONDS. 

That  ever  I,  Sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 

Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 
To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog ! 

She  's  married  since, — a  parson's  wife: 

'T  was  better  for  her  that  we  should  part, — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?    Once  :    I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road:    a  carriage  stopped: 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped! 

You  Ve  set  me  talking,  Sir;  I  'm  sorry; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?   you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me ! 

;T  was  well  she  died  before  —    Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below? 


6  THE  VAGABONDS. 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain  ;    then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were,  — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I  'm  better  now ;    that  glass  was  warming.  — 

You  rascal !    limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street.  — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink ;  — 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Eoger  and  me  1 


THE    FROZEN    HARBOR. 

i. 

TTTHEX  Winter  encamps  on  our  borders, 

And  dips  his  white  beard  in  the  rills, 
And  lays  his  broad  shield  over  highway  and  field, 

And  pitches  his  tents  on  the  hills, — 
In  the  wan  light  I  wake,  and  see  on  the  lake, 

Like  a  glove  by  the  night-winds  blown, 
With  fingers  that  crook  up  creek  and  brook, 

His  shining  gauntlet  thrown. 

Then  over  the  lonely  harbor, 

In  the  quiet  and  deadly  cold 
Of  a  single  night,  when  only  the  bright, 

Cold  constellations  behold, 
Without  trestle  or  beam,  without  mortise  or  seam, 

Is  swiftly  and  silently  spread 
A  bridge  as  of  steel,  which  a  Titan's  heel 

In  the  early  light  might  tread. 


8  THE  FROZEN  HAEBOR. 

% 

Where  Morning  over  the  waters 

Her  net  of  splendor  spun, 
Till  the  web,  all  a-twinkle  with  ripple  and  wrinkle, 

Hung  shimmering  in  the  sun,  — 
Where  the  liquid  lip  at  the  breast  of  the  ship 

Whispered  and  laughed  and  kissed, 
And  the  long,  dark  streamer  of  smoke  from  the  steamer 

Trailed  off  in  the  rose-tinted  mist,  — 

Now  all  is  gray  desolation, 

As  up  from  the  hoary  coast, 
Over  snow-fields  and  islands  her  white  arms  in  silence 

Outspreading  like  a  ghost, 
Her  feet  in  shroud,  her  forehead  in  cloud, 

Pale  walks  the  sheeted  Dawn  : 
The  sea's  blue  rim  lies  shorn  and  dim, 

In  the  purple  East  withdrawn. 

Where  floated  the  fleets  of  commerce, 

With  proud  breasts  cleaving  the  tide,  — 

Like  emmet  or  bug  with  its  burden,  the  tug 
Hither  and  thither  plied, — 


THE   FKOZEN  HARBOR.  9 

Where  the  quick  paddles   flashed,  where  the  dropped 

anchor  plashed, 

And  rattled  the  running  chain, 
Where  the  merchantman  swung  in  the  current,  where 

sung 
The  sailors  their  far  refrain, — 

Behold !    when  ruddy  Aurora 

Peeps  from  her  opening  door, 
Faint  gleams  of  the  sun  like  fairies  run 

And  sport  on  a  crystal  floor  ; 
Upon  the  river's  bright  panoply  quivers 

The  noon's  resplendent  lance  ; 

And  by  night  through  the  narrows  the  moon's  slanted 
'  arrows 

Icily  sparkle  and  glance. 

Flown  are  the  flocks  of  commerce, 

Like  wild  swans  hurrying  south ; 
The  coaster,  belated,  is  frozen,  full-freighted, 

Within  the  harbor's  mouth; 


10  THE  FROZEN  HARBOR. 

The  brigantine,  homeward  bringing 

Sweet  spices  from  afar, 
All  night  must  wait  with  her  fragrant  freight 

Below  the  lighthouse  star. 

The  ships  at  their  anchors  are  frozen, 

From  rudder  to  sloping  chain  : 
Rock-like  they  rise  :   the  low  sloop  lies 

An  oasis  in  the  plain. 
Like  reeds  here  and  there,  the  tall  masts  bare 

Upspring:   as  on  the  edge 
Of  a  lawn  smooth-shaven,  around  the  haven 

The  shipping  grows  like  sedge. 

Here,  weaving  the  union  of  cities, 

With  hoar  wakes  belting  the  blue, 
From  slip  to  slip,  past  schooner  and  ship, 

The  ferry's  shuttles  flew  :  — 
Now,  loosed  from  its  stall,  on  the  yielding  wall 

The  steamboat  paws  and  rears ; 
The  citizens  pass  on  a  pavement  of  glass, 

And  climb  the  frosted  piers. 


THE   FROZEN  HARBOR.  11 

Where,  in  the  November  twilight, 

To  the  ribs  of  the  skeleton  bark 
That  stranded  lay  in  the  bend  of  the  bay, 

Motionless,  low,  and  dark, 
Came  ever  three  shags,  like  three  lone  hags, 

And  sat  o'er  the  troubled  water, 
Each  nursing  apart  her  shrivelled  heart, 

With  her  mantle  wrapped  about  her, — 

Now  over  the  ancient  timbers 

Is  built  a  magic  deck; 
Children  run  out  with  laughter  and  shout 

And  dance  around  the  wreck ; 
The  fisherman  near  his  long  eel-spear 

Thrusts  in  through  the  ice,  or  stands 
With  fingers  on  lips,  and  now  and  then  whips 

His  sides  with  mittened  hands. 

n. 
Alone  and  pensive  I  wander 

Far  out  from  the  city-wharf 
To  the  buoy  below  in  its  cap  of  snow, 

Low  stooping  like  a  dwarf; 


12  THE   FROZEN   HARBOU. 

In  the  fading  ray  of  the  dull,  brief  day 

I  wander  and  muse  apart,  — 
For  this  frozen  sea  is  a  symbol  to  me 

Of  many  a  human  heart. 

I  think  of  the  hopes  deep  sunken 

Like  anchors  under  the  ice,  — 
Of  souls  that  wait  for  Love's  iSweet  freight 

And  the  spices  of  Paradise  : 
Far  off  their  barks  are  tossing 

On  the  billows  of  unrest, 
And  enter  not  in,  for  the  hardness  and  sin 

That  close  the  secret  breast. 

I  linger,  until,  at  evening, 

The  town-roofs,  towering  high, 
Uprear  in  the  dimness  their  tall,  dark  chimneys, 

Indenting  the  sunset  sky, 
And  the  pendent  spear  on  the  edge  of  the  pier 

Signals  my  homeward  way, 
As  it  gleams  through  the  dusk  like  a  walrus's  tusk 

On  the  floes  of  a  polar  bay. 


THE   FROZEN   HARBOR.  13 

Then  I  think  of  the  desolate  households 

On  which  the  day  shuts  down,  — 
What  mi&ery  hides  in  the  darkened  tides 

Of  life  in  yonder  town  ! 
I  think  of  the  lonely  poet 

In  his  hours  of  coldness  and  pain, 
His  fancies  full-freighted,  like  coasters  belated, 

All  frozen  within  his  brain. 

And  I  hearken  to  the  meanings 

That  come  from  the  burdened  bay : 
As  a  camel,  that  kneels  for  his  lading,  reels, 

And  cannot  bear  it  away, 
The  mighty  load  is  slowly 

Upheaved  with  struggle  and  pain 
From  centre  to  side,  then  the  groaning  tide 

Sinks  heavily  down  again. 

So  day  and  night  you  may  hear  it 

Panting  beneath  its  pack, 
Till  sailor  and  saw,  till  south-wind  and  thaw, 

Unbind  it  from  its  back. 


14  THE  FROZEN  HARBOR. 

0  Sun !    will  thy  beam  ever  gladden  the  stream 

And  bid  its  burden  depart  ? 
0  Life  !   all  in  vain  do  we  strive  with  the  chain 

That  fetters  and  chills  the  heart? 

Already  in  vision  prophetic 

On  yonder  height  I  stand  : 
The  gulls  are  gay  upon  the  bay, 

The  swallows  on  the  land ;  — 
'T  is  spring-time  now;   like  an  aspen-bough 

Shaken  across  the  sky, 
In  the  silvery  light  with  twinkling  flight 

The  rustling  plovers  fly. 

Aloft  in  the  sunlit  cordage 

Behold  the  climbing  tar, 
With  his  shadow  beside  on  the  sail  white  and  wide, 

Climbing  a  shadow-spar! 
Up  the  glassy  stream  with  issuing  steam 

The  cutter  crawls  again, 
All  winged  with  cloud  and  buzzing  loud 

Like  a  bee  upon  the  pane. 


THE   FROZEN   HARBOR.  15 

The  brigantine  is  bringing1 

Her  cargo  to  the  quay, 
The  sloop  flits  by  like  a  butterfly, 

The  schooner  skims  the  sea. 
0  3'oung  heart's  trust,  beneath  the  crust 

Of  a  chilling  world  congealed  ! 
0  love,  whose  flow  the  winter  of  woe 

With  its  icy  hand  hath  sealed! 

-   x  "  \ 

Learn  patience  from  the  lesson  ! 

Though  the  night  be  drear  and  long, 
To  the  darkest  sorrow  there  comes  a  morrow, 

A  right  to  every  wrong. 
And  as,  when,  having  run  his  low  course,  the  red  Sun 

Comes  charging  gayly  up  here, 
The  white  shield  of  Winter  shall  shiver  and  splinter 

At  the  touch  of  his  golden  spear,  — 

Then  rushing  under  the  bridges, 

And  crushing  among  the  piles, 
In  gray  mottled  masses  the  drift-ice  passes, 

Like  seaward-floating  isles  ;  — 


16  THE   FROZEN   HARBOR. 

So  Life  shall  return  from  its  solstice,  and  burn 
In  trappings  of  gold  and  blue, 

The  world  shall  pass  like  a  shattered  glass, 
And  the  heaven  of  Love  shine  through. 


OUE   LADY. 

/~\UR  lady  lives  on  the  hillside  here, 

Amid  shady  avenues,  terraced  lawns, 
And  fountains  that  leap  like  snow-white  deer, 

"With  flashing  antlers,  and  silver  fawns  ; 
And  the  twinkling  wheels  of  the  rich  and  great 
Hum  in  and  out  of  the  high-arched  gate ; 
And  willing  worshippers  throng  and  wait, 

Where  she  wearily  sits  and  yawns. 

I  remember  her  pretty  and  poor,  — 

Now  she  has  servants,  jewels,  and  land: 

She  gave  her  heart  to  a  poet-wooer,  — 

To  a  wealthy  suitor  she  bartered  her  hand. 

A  very  desirable  mate  to  choose, — 

Believing  in  viands,  in  good  port-juice, 

In  solid  comfort  and  solid  use, — 
Things  simple  to  understand. 


18  OUR  LADY. 

She  loves  poetry,  music,  and  art,  — 

He  dines,  and  races,  and  smokes,  and  shoots ; 

She  walks  in  an  ideal  realm  apart, — 

He  treads  firm  ground,  in  his  prosperous  boots: 

A  wise  design  ;    for  you  see,  't  is  clear, 

Their  paths  do  not  lie  so  unsuitably  near 

As  that  ever  either  should  interfere 
With  the  other's  chosen  pursuits. 

By  night,  as  you  roam  through  the  rich  saloons, 

When  music's  purple  and  crimson  tones 
Float,  in  invisibly  fine  festoons, 

O'er  the  buzz  and  hum  of  these  human  drones, 
You  are  ready  to  swear  that  no  happier  pair 
Have  lived  than  your  latter-day  Adarn  there, 
And  our  sweet,  pale  Eve,  of  the  dark-furrowed  hair, 
Thick  sown  with  glittering  stones. 

But  I  see,  in  the  midst  of  the  music  and  talk, 
A  shape  steal  forth  from  the  glowing  room, 

And  pass,  by  a  lonely  cypress  walk, 

Far  down  through  the  ghostly  midnight  gloom, 


OUR   LADY.  19 

Sighing  and  sorrowful,  wringing  its  hands, 
And  bruising  its  feet  on  the  pointed  sands, 
Till,  white,  despairing,  and  dumb  it  stands, 
In  the  shadowy  damp  of  a  tomb. 

The  husband  sprawls  in  his  easy-chair, 

And  smirks,  and  smacks,  and  tells  his  jest, 

And  strokes  his  chin  with  a  satisfied  air, 
And  hooks  his  thumbs  in  his  h'lagreed  vest; 

And  the  laugh  rings  round,  and  still  she  seems 

To  sit  smiling  there,  and  nobody  deems 

That  her  soul  has  gone  down  to  that  region  of  dreams, 
A  weary,  disconsolate  guest. 

Dim  ghosts  of  happiness  haunt  the  grot, 

Phantoms  of  buried  hopes  untold, 
And  ashen  memories  strew  the  spot 

Where  her  young  heart's  love  lies  coffined  and  cold. 
With  her  burden  of  sin  she  kneeleth  within, 
And  kisses,  and  presses,  with  fingers  thin, 
Brow,  mouth,  and  bosom,  and  beautiful  chin 

Of  the  dead  that  groweth  not  old. 


20  OUR  LADY. 

He  is  ever  there,  with  his  dark  wavy  hair, 

Unchanged  through  years  of  anguish  and  tears ; 

His  hands  are  pressed  on  his  passionate  breast, 
His  eyes  still  plead  with  foreboding  and  fears. 

0,  she  dwells  not  at  all  in  that  stately  hall! 

But,  day  and  night,  'neath  the  cypresses  tall, 

She  opens  the  coffin,  uplifteth  the  pall, 
And  the  living  dead  appears ! 


THE    MILL-POND. 

rTIHE  linden,  maple,  and  birch-tree  bless, 

With  cooling  shades,  the  banks  I  press 
In  the  midsummer  sultriness ; 
And  under  the  thickest  shade  of  all 
Singeth  a  musical  waterfall. 

The  burnished  breast  of  a  silver  pond 

In  the  sunlight  lieth  beyond,  — 

Clear,  and  calm,  and  still  as  death, 

Save  where  the  south-wind's  blurring  breath, 

Like  an  angel's  pinion,  fluttereth. 

The  south-wind  moveth,  but  maketh  no  noise, 

Nor  ever  disturbeth  the  delicate  poise 

Of  the  little  fishing  floats  the  boys 

Sit  idly  watching  on  log  and  ledge : 

It  toucheth  but  softly  the  languid  sedge, 

Drooping  all  day  by  the  water's  edge. 


22  THE  MILL-POND. 

In  the  thickets  shady  and  cool 

The  white  sheep  tear  their  tender  wool ; 

Pensively,  one  snowy  lamb 

Stands  sighing  beside  the  grassy  dam ; 

Shaking  and  clashing  the  heavy  boughs, 

The  limber  colts  and  the  sober  cows 

Down  from  the  woody  hillside  come, 

To  stand  in  the  shallows,  and  hark  to  the  hum 

Of  the  waterfall  beating  its  airy  drum. 

Deep  in  the  shadowy  dell  at  noon 
I  lie,  and  list  to  the  drowsy  tune, 
Fanned  by  the  sweet  south-wind  ; 
And  I  think  how  like  to  the  poet's  mind 
Are  the  skyey  depths  of  the  silver  pond, 
That  in  the  sunlight  lieth  beyond 
These  lindens  tall,  ami  the  slimy  wall 
Over  which  poureth  the  waterfall. 

When  the  angry  March  winds  blow, 
And  rains  descend,  and  freshets  flow 
In  torrent  and  rill  from  mountain  and  hill, 


THE   MILL-POND.  23 

And  the  ponderous  wheels  of  the  sunken  mill 
Go  round  and  round,  with  a  sullen  sound, 
Rumbling,  mumbling-,  half  under  ground,  — 
Hoarsely  the  waterfall  singeth  all  day, 
And  the  waters  are  streaked  with  marl  and  clay 

But  when  these  shaded  banks  I  press, 
In  the  midsummer  sultriness, 
Standeth  all  still  the  mumbling  mill ; 
The  quiet  pond  doth  seem  to  thrill 
With  joys  which  all  its  windings  fill ; 
And  in  its  depths  the  eye  may  view 
A  world  of  soft  and  dreamy  hue,  — 
Banks,  and  trees,  and  a  sky  of  blue. 

Willow  and  sedge,  by  the  water's  edge, 
And  children  fishing  from  log  and  ledge  ; 
The  kingly  oak  with  its  myriad  leaves,  — 
Even  the  web  the  spider  weaves  ; 
Lilies,  cresses,  and  wild  swamp  grasses, 
And  every  butterfly  that  passes, 
The  lakelet's  placid  bosom  glasses. 


THE    RESTORED    PICTURE. 

TN  later  years,  veiling  its  unblest  face 

In  a  most  loathsome  place, 
The  cheap  adornment  of  a  house  of  shame, 

It  hung,  till,  gnawed  away 

By  tooth  of  slow  decay, 
It  fell,  and  parted  from  its  mouldering  frame. 

The  rotted  canvas,  faintly  smiling  still, 

From  worldly  puff  and  frill, 
Its  ghastly  smile  of  coquetry  and  pride, 

Crumpling  its  faded  charms 

And  yellow  jewelled  arms, 
Mere  rubbish  now,  was  rudely  cast  aside. 

The  shadow  of  a  Genius  crossed  the  gate  : 

He,  skilled  to  re-create 
In  old  and  ruined  paintings  their  lost  soul 


THE  KESTORED  PICTURE.  25 

And  beauty,  —  one  who  knew 
The  Master's  touch  by  true, 
Swift  instinct,  as  the  needle  knows  the  pole, 

Looked  on  it,  and  straightway  his  searching  eyes 

Saw  through  its  coarse  disguise 
Of  vulgar  paint  and  grime  and  varnish  stain 

The  Art  that  slept  beneath,  — 

A  chrysalis  in  its  sheath, 
That  waited  to  be  waked  to  life  again. 

Upon  enduring  canvas  to  renew 

Each  wondrous  trait  and  hue,  — 
This  is  the  miracle,  his  chosen  task ! 

He  bears  it  to  his  house, 

And  there  from  lips  and  brows 
With  loving  touch  removes  their  alien  mask. 

For  so  on  its  perfection  time  had  laid 

An  early  mellowing  shade  ; 
Then  hands  unskilled,  each  seeking  to  impart 

2 


26  THE  RESTORED   PICTURE. 

Fresh  tints  to  form  and  face, 
With  some  more  modern  grace, 
Had  buried  quite  the  mighty  Master's  Art. 

•  First,  razed  from  the  divine  original, 
Brow,  cheek,  and  lid,  went  all 

That  outer  shape  of  worldliness  ;   when,  lo  ! 
Beneath  the  varnished  crust 
Of  long  imbedded  dust 

A  fairer  face  appears,  emerging  slow,  — 

The  features  of  a  simple  shepherdess ! 

Pure  eyes,  and  golden  tress, 
And,  lastly,  crook  in  hand.  But  deeper  still 

The  Master's  work  lies  hid ; 

And  still  through  lip  and  lid 
Works  the  Restorer  with  unsparing  skill. 

Behold  at  length,  in  tender  light  revealed, 

The  soul  so  long  concealed  I 
All  heavenly  faint  at  first,  then  softly  bright, 


THE  RESTORED  PICTURE.  27 

As  smiles  the  young-eyed  Dawn 
When  darkness  is  withdrawn, 
A  shining  angel  breaks  upon  the  sight  1 

Eestored,  perfected,  after  the  divine 

Imperishable  design, 
Lo  now !    that  once  despised  and  outcast  thing 

Holds  its  true  place  among 

The  fairest  pictures  hung 
In  the  high  palace  of  our  Lord  the  King ! 


2* 


MY  BROTHER  BEN. 

'I/lROM  the  door  where  I  stand  I  can  see  his  fair  land 

Sloping  up  to  a  broad  sunny  height  ; 
The  meadows  new-shorn,  and  the  green  wavy  corn, 

The  buckwheat  all  blossoming  white  : 
There   a    gay   garden    blooms,   there    are   cedars   like 

plumes, 

And  a  rill  from  the  mountain  leaps  up  in  a  fountain, 
And  shakes  its  glad  locks  in  the  light. 

He  dwells  in  the  hall  where  the  long  shadows  fall 

On  the  checkered  and  cool  esplanade  ; 
I  live  in  a  cottage  secluded  and  small, 

By  a  gnarly  old  apple-tree's  shade : 
Side  by  side  in  the  glen,  I  and  my  brother  Ben,  — 
Just  the  river  between  us,  with  borders  as  green  as 

The  banks  where  in  childhood  we  played. 


MY   BROTHER  BEN.  29 

But  now  nevermore  upon  river  or  shore 

He  runs  or  he  rows  by  my  side ; 
For  I  am  still  poor,  like  our  father  before, 

And  he,  full  of  riches  and  pride, 
Leads  a  life  of  such  show,  there  is  no  room,  you  know, 
In  the  very  fine  carriage  he  gained  by  his  marriage 

For  an  old-fashioned  brother  to  ride. 

His  wife,  with  her  gold,  gives  him  friends,  I  am  told, 

With  whom  she  is  rather  too  gay,  — 
The  senator's  son,  who  is  ready  to  run 

For  her  gloves  and  her  fan,  night  or  day, 
And  to  gallop  beside,  when  she  wishes  to  ride  : 
0,  no  doubt  't  is  an  honor  to  see  smile  upon  her 

Such  world-famous  fellows  as  they  I 

Ah,  brother  of  mine,  while  you  sport,  while  you  dine, 
While  you  drink  of  your  wine  like  a  lord, 

You  might  curse,  one  would  say,  and  grow  jaundiced 

and  gray, 
With  such  guests  every  day  at  your  board ! 

But  you  sleek  down  your  rage  like  a  pard  in  its  cage, 


30  MY  BROTHER   BEN. 

And  blink  in  meek   fashion   through  the   bars  of  your 

passion, 
As  husbands  like  you  can  afford. 

For  still  you  must  think,  as  you  eat,  as  you  drink, 

As  you  hunt  with  your  dogs  and  your  guns, 
How  your  pleasures  are  bought  with  the  wealth  that 

she  brought, 

Arid  you  were  once  hunted  by  duns. 
0,  I  envy  you  not  your  more  fortunate  lot : 
I  've  a  wife  all  my  own  in  my  own  little  cot, 
And  with  happiness,  which  is  far  better  than  riches, 
The  cup  of  our  love  overruns. 

We  have  bright,  rosy  girls,  fair  as  ever  an  earl's, 
And  the  wealth  of  their  curls  is  our  gold  ; 

0,  their  lisp  and  their  laugh,  they  are  sweeter  by  half 
Than  the  wine  that  you  quaff  red  and  old  ! 

We  have  love-lighted  looks,  we  have  work,  we  have 

books, 
Our  boys  have  grown  manly  and  bold, 


MY   BROTHER   BEN.  31 

And  they  never  shall  blush,  when  their  proud  cousins 

brush 
From    the    walls    of  their   college    such    cobwebs    of 

knowledge 
As  careless  young  fingers  may  hold. 

Keep   your   pride   and  your   cheer,  for  we  need  them 
not  here, 

And  for  me  far  too  dear  they  would  prove  ; 
For  gold  is  but  gloss,  and  possessions  are  dross, 

And  gain  is  all  loss,  without  love. 
Yon  sevei-ing  tide  is  not  fdrdless  or  wide, — 
The  soul's  blue  abysses  our  households  divide  : 
Down  through  the  still  river  they  deepen  forever, 

Like  the  skies  it  reflects  from  above. 


Still  my  brother  thou  art,  though  our  lives  lie  apart, 
Path  from  path,  heart  from  heart,  more  and  more. 

0,  I  have  not  forgot,  —  0,  remember  you  not 
Our  room  in  the  cot  by  the  shore  ? 


32  MY  BROTHER  BEN. 

And  a  night   soon  will   come,  when   the   murmur   and 
hum 

Of  our  days  shall  be  dumb  evermore, 
And  again  we  shall  lie  side  by  side,  you  and  I, 
Beneath  the  green  cover  you  helped  to  lay  over 

Our  honest  old  father  of  yore. 


THE    PEWEE. 

rjlHE  listening  Dryads  hushed  the  woods  ; 

The  boughs  were  thick,  and  thin  and  few 

The  golden  ribbons  fluttering  through ; 
Their  sun-embroidered,  leafy  hoods 

The  lindens  lifted  to  the  blue: 
Only  a  little  forest-brook 
The  farthest  hem  of  silence  shook  : 
When  in  the  hollow  shades  I  heard,  — 
Was  it  a  spirit,  or  a  bird  ? 
Or,  strayed  from  Eden,  desolate, 
Some  Peri  calling  to  her  mate, 

Whom  nevermore  her  mate  would  cheer? 
"  Pe-ri !    pe-ri  I   peer  !  " 

Through  rocky  clefts  the  brooklet  fell 

With  plashy  pour,  that  scarce  was  sound, 
But  only  quiet  less  profound, 


34  THE  PEWEE. 

A  stillness  fresh  and  audible : 
A  yellow  leaflet  to  the  ground 

Whirled  noiselessly :   with  wing  of  gloss 

A  hovering  sunbeam  brushed  the  moss, 

And,  wavering  brightly  over  it, 

Sat  like  a  butterfly  alit : 

The  owlet  in  his  open  door 

Stared  roundly  :    while  the  breezes  bore 

The  plaint  to  far-off  places  drear,  — 

"  Pe-ree  !   pe-ree !   peer  !  " 

To  trace  it  in  its  green  retreat 
I  sought  among  the  boughs  in  vain ; 
And  followed  still  the  wandering  strain, 
So  melancholy'  and  so  sweet  • 

The  dim-eyed  violets  yearned  with  pain. 
'T  was  now  a  sorrow  in  the  air, 
Some  nymph's  immortalized  despair 
Haunting  the  woods  and  waterfalls  ; 
And  now,  at  long,  sad  intervals, 
Sitting  unseen  in  dusky  shade, 
His  plaintive  pipe  some  fairy  played, 


THE   PEWEE.  35 

With  long-drawn  cadence  thin  and  clear,  — 
"Pe-wee!  pe-wee!  peer!" 

Long-drawn  and  clear  its  closes  were, — 

As  if  the  hand  of  Music  through 

The  sombre  robe  of  Silence  drew 
A  thread  of  golden  gossamer : 

So  pure  a  flute  the  fairy  blew. 
Like  beggared  princes  of  the  wood, 
In  silver  rags  the  birches  stood ; 
The  hemlocks,  lordly  counsellors, 
Were  dumb  ;   the  sturdy  servitors, 
In  beechen  jackets  patched  and  gray, 
Seemed  waiting  spellbound  all  the  day 

That  low,  entrancing  note  to  hear, — 
"  Pe-wee !   pe-wee !   peer  !  " 

I  quit  the  search,  and  sat  me  down 

Beside  the  brook,  irresolute, 

And  watched  a  little  bird  in  suit 
Of  sober  olive,  soft  and  brown, 

Perched  in  the  maple-branches,  mute : 


36  THE   PEWEE. 

With  greenish  gold  its  vest  was  fringed, 
Its  tiny  cap  was  ebon-tinged, 
With  ivory  pale  its  wings  were  barred, 
And  its  dark  eyes  were  tender-starred. 
"Dear  bird,"  I  said,  "what  is  thy  name?" 
And  thrice  the  mournful  answer  came, 
So  faint  and  far,  and  yet  so  near, — 
"  Pe-wee !  pe-wee !  peer !  " 

For  so  I  found  my  forest  bird,  — 

The  pewee  of  the  loneliest  woods, 

Sole  singer  in  these  solitudes, 
Which  never  robin's  whistle  stirred, 

Where  never  bluebird's  plume  intrudes. 
Quick  darting  through  the  dewy  morn, 
The  redstart  trilled  his  twittering  horn, 
And  vanished  in  thick  boughs  :    at  even, 
Like  liquid  pearls  fresh  showered  from  heaven, 
The  high  notes  of  the  lone  wood-thrush 
Fall  on  the  forest's  holy  hush : 

But  thou  all  day  complainest  here,  — 
"  Pe-wee  !   pe-wee  !   peer ! " 


THE   PEWEE.  37 

Hast  thou,  too,  in  thy  little  breast, 
Strange  longings  for  a  happier  lot,  — 
For  love,  for  life,  thou  know'st  not  Avhat,  — 

A  yearning,  and  a  vague  unrest, 

For  something  still  which  thou  hast  not  ?  — 

Thou  soul  of  some  benighted  child 

That  perished,  crying  in  the  wild ! 

Or  lost,  forlorn,  and  wandering  maid, 

By  love  allured,  by  love  betrayed, 

Whose  spirit  with  her  latest  sigh 

Arose,  a  little  winged  cry, 

Above  her  chill  and  mossy  bier! 
"Dear  me!   dear  me!  dear  I" 

Ah,  no  such  piercing  sorrow  mars 
The  pewee's  life  of  cheerful  ease  I 
He  sings,  or  leaves  his  song  to  seize 

An  insect  sporting  in  the  bars 

Of  mild  bright  light  that  gild  the  trees.    . 

A  very  poet  he  !     For  him 

All  pleasant  places  still  and  dim  : 

His  heart,  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire, 


38  THE  PEWEE. 

Burns  with  undying,  sweet  desire : 
And  so  he  sings ;   and  so  his  song, 
Though  heard  not  by  the  hurrying  throng, 
Is  solace  to  the  pensive  ear: 
"  Pewee !  pewee  I  peer ! " 


BEYOND. 


her  own  fair  dominions, 
Long  since,  with  shorn  pinions, 
My  spirit  was  banished  : 

But  around  her  still  hover,  in  vigils  and  dreams, 
Ethereal  visitants,  voices,  and  gleams, 
That  forever  remind  her 
Of  something  behind  her 
Long  vanished. 

Through  the  listening  night, 
With  mysterious  flight, 

Pass  those  winged  intimations  : 

Like  stars  shot  from  heaven,  their  still  voices  fall  to  me  ; 
Far  and  departing,  they  signal  and  call  to  me, 
Strangely  beseeching  me, 
Chiding,  yet  teaching  me 
Patience 


40  BEYOND. 

Then  at  times,  oh!  at  times, 
To  their  luminous  climes 

I  pursue  as  a  swallow ! 

To  the  river  of  Peace,  and  its  solacing  shades, 
To  the  haunts  of  my  lost  ones,  in  heavenly  glades, 
With  strong  aspirations 
Their  pinions'  vibrations 
I  follow. 

0  heart,  be  thou  patient ! 
Though  here  I  am  stationed 

A  season  in  durance, 

The  chain  of  the  world  I  will  cheerfully  wear ; 
For,  spanning  my  soul  like  a  rainbow,  I  bear, 
With  the  yoke  of  my  lowly 
Condition,  a  holy 
Assurance,  — 

That  never  in  vain 
Does  the  spirit  maintain 

Her  eternal  allegiance : 
Through  suffering  and  yearning,  like  Infancy  learning 


BEYOND.  41 

Its  lesson,  we  linger;    then,  skyward  returning, 
On  plumes  fully  grown 
We  depart  to  our  own 
Native  regions  1 


MIDWINTER. 

• 

nnHE  speckled  sky  is  dim  -with  snow, 

The  light  flakes  falter  and  fall  slow ; 
Athwart  the  hill-top,  rapt  and  pale, 
Silently  drops  a  silvery  veil ; 
And  all  the  valley  is  shut  in 
By  flickering  curtains  gray  and  thin. 

But  cheerily  the  chickadee 
Singeth  to  me  on  fence  and  tree; 
The  snow  sails  round  him,  as  he  sings, 
White  as'  the  down  of  angels'  wings. 

I  watch  the  slow  flakes  as  they  fall 
On  bank  and  brier  and  broken  wall ; 
Over  the  orchard,  waste  and  brown, 
All  noiselessly  they  settle  down, 
Tipping  the  apple-boughs,  and  each 
Light  quivering  twig  of  plum  and  peach. 


MIDWINTER.  43 

On  turf  and  curb  and  bower-roof 
The  snow-storm  spreads  its  ivory  woof; 
It  paves  with  pearl  the  garden-walk  ; 
And  lovingly  round  tattered  stalk 
And  shivering  stem  its  magic  weaves 
A  mantle  fair  as  lily-leaves. 


The  hooded  beehive,  small  and  low, 
Stands  like  a  maiden  in  the  snow ; 
And  the  old  door-slab  is  half  hid 
Under  an  alabaster  lid. 


All  day  it  snows :  the  sheeted  post 
Gleams  in  the  dimness  like  a  ghost ; 
All  day  the  blasted  oak  has  stood 
A  muffled  wizard  of  the  wood  ; 
Garland  and  airy  cap  adorn 
The  sumach  and  the  wayside  thorn, 
And  clustering  spangles  lodge  and  shine 
In  the  dark  tresses  of  the  pine. 


44  MIDWINTER. 

The  ragged  bramble,  dwarfed  and  old, 
Shrinks  like  a  beggar  in  the  cold  ; 
In  surplice  white  the  cedar  stands, 
And  blesses  him  with  priestly  hands. 

Still  cheerily  the  chickadee 

Singeth  to  me  on  fence  and  tree : 

But  in  my  inmost  ear  is  heard 

The  music  of  a  holier  bird  ; 

And  heavenly  thoughts,  as  soft  and  white 

As  snow-flakes,  on  my  soul  alight, 

Clothing  with  love  my  lonely  heart, 

Healing  with  peace  each  bruised  part, 

Till  all  my  being  seems  to  be 

Transfigured  by  their  purity. 


MIDSUMMER. 


A  ROUND  this  lovely  valley  rise 
The  purple  hills  of  Paradise. 


0  softly  on  yon  banks  of  haze 
Her  rosy  face  the  Summer  lays  ! 

Becalmed  along  the  azure  sky, 

The  argosies  of  cloudland  lie, 

Whose  shores,  with  many  a  shining  rift, 

Faf  off  their  pearl-white  peaks  uplift. 

Through  all  the  long  midsummer-day 
The  meadow-sides  are  sweet  with  hay. 

1  seek  the  coolest  sheltered  seat, 

Just  where  the  field  and  forest  meet,  — 
Where  grow  the  pine-trees  tall  and  bland, 
The  ancient  oaks  austere  and  grand, 


MIDSUMMER. 

And  fringy  roots  and  pebbles  fret 
The  ripples  of  the  rivulet. 

I  watch  the  mowers,  as  they  go 
Through  the  tall  grass,  a  white-sleeved  row. 
With  even  stroke  their  scythes  they  swing, 
In  tune  their  merry  whetstones  ring. 
Behind  the  nimble  youngsters  run, 
And  toss  the  thick  swaths  in  the  sun. 
The  cattle  graze,  while,  warm  and  still, 
Slopes  the  broad  pasture,  basks  the  hill, 
And  bright,  where  summer  breezes  break, 
The  green  wheat  crinkles  like  a  lake. 

The  butterfly  and  humble-bee 
Come  to  the  pleasant  woods  with  me  ; 
Quickly  before  me  runs  the  quail, 
Her  chickens  skulk  behind  the  rail ; 
High  up  the  lone  wood-pigeon  sits, 
And  the  woodpecker  pecks  and  flits. 
Sweet  woodland  music  sinks  and  swells, 
The  brooklet  rings  its  tinkling  bells, 


MIDSUMMER.  47 

The  swarming  insects  drone  and  hum, 
The  partridge  beats  his  throbbing  drum. 
The  squirrel  leaps  among  the  boughs, 
And  chatters  in  his  leafy  house. 
The  oriole  flashes  by  ;    and,  look ! 
Into  the  mirror  of  the  brook, 
Where  the  vain  bluebird  trims  his  coat, 
Two  tiny  feathers  fall  and  float. 

As  silently,  as  tenderly, 
The  down  of  peace  descends  on  me. 
0,  this  is  peace!     I  have  no  need 
Of  friend  to  talk,  of  book  to  read : 
A  dear  Companion  here  abides  ; 
Close  to  my  thrilling  heart  He  hides ; 
The  holy  silence  is  His  Voice : 
I  lie  and  listen,  and  rejoice. 


MY    COMRADE    AND    I. 

TTTE  two  have  grown  up  so  divinely  together, 

Flower  within  flower  from  seed  within  seed, 
The  sagest  astrologer  cannot  say  whether 

His  being  or  mine  was  first  called  and  decreed. 
In  the  life  before  birth,  by  inscrutable  ties, 

We  were  linked  each  to  each  ;  I  am  bound  up  in  him  : 
He  sickens,  I  languish ;    without  me  he  dies ; 

I  am  life  of  his  life,  he  is  limb  of  my  limb. 

Twin  babes  from  one  cradle,  I  tottered  about  with  him, 

Chased  the  bright  butterflies,  singing,  a  boy  with  him  : 
Still  as  a  man  I  am  borne  in  and  out  with  him, 

Sup  with  him,  sleep  with  him,  suffer,  enjoy  with  him. 
Faithful  companion,  me  long  he  has  carried 

Unseen  in  his  bosom,  a  lamp  to  his  feet ; 
More  near  than  a  bridegroom,  to  him  I  am  married, 

As  light  in  the  sunbeam  is  wedded  to  heat. 


MY   COMRADE  AND  L  49 

If  my  beam  be  withdrawn  he  is  senseless  and  blind ; 

I  am  sight  to  his  vision,  I  hear  with  his  ears  ; 
His  the  marvellous  brain,  I  the  masterful  mind  ; 

I  laugh  with  his  laughter  and  weep  with  his  tears- 
So  well  that  the  ignorant  deem  us  but  one  : 

They  see  but  one  shape  and  they  name  us  one  name; 
0  pliant  accomplice  !   what  deeds  we  have  done, 

Thus  banded  together  for  glory  or  shame  ! 

When  evil  waylays  us,  and  passion  surprises, 

And  we  are  too  feeble  to  strive  or  to  fly, 
When  hunger  compels  or  when  pleasure  entices, 

Which  most  is  the  sinner,  my  comrade  or  I  ? 
And  when  over  perils  and  pains  and  temptations- 

I  triumph,  where  still  I  should  falter  and  faint, 
But  for  him,  iron-nerved  for  heroical  patience, 

Whose  then  is  the  virtue,  and  which  is  the  saint?' 

Am  I  the  one  sinner?   of  honors  sole  claimant 
For  actions  which  only  we  two  can  perform  ? 

Am  I  the  true  creature,  and  thou  but  the  raiment? 
Thou  magical  mantle,  all  vital  and  warm, 

3  D 


50  MY  COMRADE  AND  I. 

Wrapped  about  me,  a  screen  from  the  rough  winds  of 
Time, 

Of  texture  so  flexile  to  feature  and  gesture ! 
Can  ever  I  part  from  thee  ?     Is  there  a  clime 

Where  Life  needeth  not  this  terrestrial  vesture  ? 

When  comes  the  sad  summons  to  sever  the  sweet 
Subtle  tie  that  unites  us,  and  tremulous,  fearful, 
I  feel  thy  loosed  fetters  depart  from  my  feet; 

When  friends  gathered   round   us,  pale-visaged   and 

tearful, 

Be  weep  and  bewail  thee,  thou  fair  earthly  prison ! 
And    kiss    thy    cold    doors,    for    thy    inmate    mis- 
taken ; 
Their  eyes  seeing  not  the  freed  captive,  arisen 

From    thy    trammels    unclasped    and    thy    shackles 
downshaken  ; 

0,  then  shall  I  linger,  reluctant  to  break 

The  dear  sensitive  chains  that  about  me  have  grown  ? 

And  all  this  bright  world,  can  I  bear  to  forsake 
Its  embosoming  beauty  and  love,  and  alone 


MY   COMRADE  AND  I.  5T 

Journey  on  to  I  know  not  what  regions  untried? 

Exists  there,  beyond  the  dim  cloud-rack  of  death, 
Such  life  as  enchants  us  ?    0  skies  arched  and  wide ! 

0  delicate  senses !    0  exquisite  breath ! 

Ah,  tenderly,  tenderly  over  thee  hovering, 

1  shall  look  down  on  thee  empty  and  cloven, 
Pale  mould  of  my  being!  —  thou  visible  covering 

Wherefrom  my  invisible  raiment  is  woven. 
Though  sad  be  the  passage,  nor  pain  shall  appall  me, 

Nor  parting,  assured,  wheresoever  I  range 
The  glad  fields  of  existence,  that  naught  can  befall  me 

That  is  not  still  beautiful,  blessed,  and  strange. 


THE    WOLVES. 


"VT^E  who  listen  to  stories  told, 

When  hearths  are  cheery  and  nights  are  cold, 


Of  the  lone  wood-side,  and  the  hungry  pack 
That  howls  on  the  fainting  traveller's  track,  — 

Flame-red  eyeballs  that  waylay, 

By  the  wintry  moon,  the  belated  sleigh, — 

The  lost  child  sought  in  the  dismal  wood, 
The  little  shoes  and  the  stains  of  blood 

On  the  trampled  snow,  —  0  ye  that  hear, 
With  thrills  of  pity,  or  chills  of  fear, 

Wishing  some  angel  had  been  sent 
To  shield  the  hapless  and  innocent, — 


THE  WOLVES.  53 

Know  ye  the  fiend  that  is  crueller  far 

Than  the  gaunt  gray  herds  of  the  forest  are  ? 

Swiftly  vanish  the  wild  fleet  tracks 
Before  the  rifle  and  woodman's  axe : 

But  hark  to  the  coming  of  unseen  feet, 
Pattering  by  night  through  the  city  street! 

Each  wolf  that  dies  in  the  woodland  brown 
Lives  a  spectre  and  haunts  the  town. 

By  square  and  market  they  slink  and  prowl, 
In  lane  and  alley  they  leap  and  howl. 

All  night  they  snuff  and  snarl  before 

The  poor  patched  window  and  broken  door. 

They  paw  the  clapboards  and  claw  the  latch, 
At  every  crevice  they  whine  and  scratch. 

Their  tongues  are  subtle  and  long  and  thin, 
And  they  lap  the  living  blood  within. 


54  THE  WOLVES. 

Icy  keen  are  the  teeth  that  tear, 
Eed  as  ruin  the  eyes  that  glare. 

Children  crouched  in  corners  cold 
Shiver  in  tattered  garments  old, 

And  start  from  sleep  with  bitter  pangs 

At  the  touch  of  the  phantoms'  viewless  fangs. 

Weary  the  mother  and  worn  with  strife, 
Still  she  watches  and  fights  for  life. 

But  her  hand  is  feeble,  and  weapon  small: 
One  little  needle  against  them  all  I 

In  evil  hour  the  daughter  fled 

From  her  poor  shelter  and  wretched  bed. 

Through  the  city's  pitiless  solitude 
To  the  door  of  sin  the  wolves  pursued. 

Fierce  the  father  and  grim  with  want, 

His  hoart  is  gnawed  by  the  spectres  gaunt. 


THE  WOLVES.  55 

Frenzied  stealing  forth  by  night, 

With  whetted  knife  to  the  desperate  fight, 

He  thought  to  smite  the  spectres  dead, 
But  he  smites  his  brother  man  instead. 

0  you  that  listen  to  stories  told, 

When  hearths  are  cheery  and  nights  are  cold, 

Weep  no  more  at  the  tales  you  hear, 

The  danger  is  close,  and  the  wolves  are  near. 

Shudder  not  at  the  murderer's  name, 
Marvel  not  at  the  maiden's  shame. 

Pass  not  by  with  averted  eye 

The  door  where  the  stricken  children  cry. 

But  when  the  beat  of  the  phantom  feet 
Sounds  by  night  through  the  stormy  street, 

Follow  thou  where  the  spectres  glide  ; 
Stand  like  Hope  by  the  mother's  side; 


56  THE   WOLVES. 

.     And  be  thyself  the  angel  sent 
To  shield  the  hapless  and  innocent. 

He  giveth  little  who  gives  but  tears, 
He  giveth  his  best  who  aids  and  cheers. 

He  does  well  in  the  forest  wild 

Who  slays  the  monster  and  saves  the  child  ; 

But  he  does  better,  and  merits  more, 

"Who  drives  the  wolf  from  the  poor  man's  door. 


LA    CANTATRICE. 

T>  Y  day,  at  a  high  oak  desk  I  stand, 

And  trace  in  a  ledger  line  by  line  ; 
But  at  five  o'clock  yon  dial's  hand 

Opens  the  cage  wherein  I  pine  ; 
And  as  faintly  the  stroke  from  the  belfry  peals 
Down  through  the  thunder  of  hoofs  and  wheels, 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  monarch  feels 
Such  royal  joy  as  mine  ! 

Beatrice  is  dressed,  and  her  carriage  waits ; 

I  know  she  has  heard  that  signal-chime  ; 
And  my  strong  heart  leaps  and  palpitates, 

As  lightly  the  winding  stair  I  climb 
To  her  fragrant  room,  where  the  winter's  gloom 
Is  changed  by  the  heliotrope's  perfume, 
And  the  curtained  sunset's  crimson  bloom, 
To  love's  own  summer  prime. 
3* 


58  LA   CANTATRICE. 

I 

She  meets  me  there,  so  strangely  fair 

That  my  soul  aches  with  a  happy  pain ;  — 

A  pressure,  a  touch  of  her  true  lips,  such 
As  a  seraph  might  give  and  take  again  ; 

A  hurried  whisper,  "  Adieu  1    adieu ! 

They  wait  for  me  while  I  stay  for  you  1  " 

And  a  parting  smile  of  her  blue  eyes  through 
The  glimmering  carriage-pane. 

Then  thoughts  of  the  past  come  crowding  fast 

On  a  blissful  track  of  love  and  sighs  ;  — 
0,  well  I  toiled,  and  these  poor  hands  soiled, 

That  her  song  might  bloom  in  Italian  skies! — • 
The  pains  and  fears  of  those  lonely  years, 
The  nights  of  longing  and  hope  and  tears,  — • 
Her  heart's  sweet  debt,  and  the  long  arrears 
Of  love  in  those  faithful  eyes ! 

0  night !  be  friendly  to  her  and  me  !  — 

To  box  and  pit  and  gallery  swarm 
The  expectant  throngs  ;  —  I  am  there  to  see ;  — 

And  now  she  is  bending  her  ^diant  form 


LA  CANTATEICE.  59 

To  the  clapping  crowd ;  —  I  am  thrilled  and  proud  ; 
My  dim  eyes  look  through  a  misty  cloud, 
And  my  joy  mounts  up  on  the.  plaudits  loud, 
Like  a  sea-bird  on  a  storm  1 

She  has  waved  her  hand ;   the  tumultuous  rush 
Of  applause  sinks  down ;    and  silverly 

Her  voice  glides  forth  on  the  quivering  hush, 
Like  the  white-robed  moon  on  a  tremulous  sea  I 

And  wherever  her  shining  influence  calls, 

I  swing  on  the  billow  that  swells  and  falls,  — 

I  know  no  more,  —  till  the  very  walls 
Seem  shouting  with  jubilee  ! 

0,  little  she  cares  for  the  fop  who  airs 
His  glove  and  glass,  or  the  gay  array 

Of  fans  and  perfumes,  of  jewels  and  plumes, 
Where  wealth  and  pleasure  have  met  to  pay 

Their  nightly  homage  to  her  sweet  song  ; 

But  over  the  bravas  clear  and  strong, 

Over  all  the  flaunting  and  fluttering  throng1, 
She  smiles  my  soul  away  1 


60  LA   CANTATRICE. 

Why  am  I  happy  ?   why  am  I  proud  ? 

0,  can  it  be  true  she  is  all  my  own?  — 
I  make  my  way  through  the  ignorant  crowd  ; 

I  know,  I  know  where  my  love  hath  flown. 
Again  we  meet ;    I  am  here  at  her  feet, 
And  with  kindling  kisses  and  promises  sweet, 
Her  glowing,  victorious  lips  repeat 
That  they  sing  for  me  alone ! 


BEAUTY. 

TT^OND  lover  of  the  Ideal  Fair, 

My  soul,  eluded  everywhere, 
la  lapsed  into  a  sweet  despair. 

Perpetual  pilgrim,  seeking  ever, 
Baffled,  enamored,  finding  never  ; 
Each  morn  the  cheerful  chase  renewing, 
Misled,  bewildered,  still  pursuing; 
Not  all  my  lavished  years  have  bought 
One  steadfast  smile  from  her  I  sought, 
But  sidelong  glances,  glimpsing  light, 
A  something  far  too  fine  for  sight, 
Veiled  voices,  far-off  thridding  strains, 
And  precious  agonies  and  pains: 
Not  love,  but  only  love's^  dear  wound 
And  exquisite  unrest  I  found. 


BEAUTY,     t 

At  early  morn  I  saw  her  pass 
The  lone  lake's  blurred  and  quivering 
Her  trailing  veil  of  amber  mist 
The  unbending  beaded  clover  kissed ; 
And  straight  I  hasted  to  waylay 
Her  coming  by  the  willowy  way  ;  — 
But,  swift  companion  of  the  Dawn, 
She  left  her  footprints  on  the  lawn, 
And,  in  arriving,  she  was  gone. 


Alert  I  ranged  the  winding  shore  ; 
Her  luminous  presence  flashed  before  ; 
The  wild-rose  and  the  daisies  wet 
From  her  light  touch  were  trembling  yet ; 
Faint  smiled  the  conscious  violet ; 
Each  bush  and  brier  and  rock  betrayed 
Some  tender  sign  her  parting  made  ; 
And  when  far  on  her  flight  I  tracked 
To  where  the  thunderous  cataract 
O'er  walls  of  foamy  ledges  broke, 
She  vanished  in  the  vapory  smoke. 


BEAUTY.  63 

To-night  I  pace  this  pallid  floor, 

The  sparkling  waves  curl  up  the  shore, 

The  August  moon  is  flushed  and  full ; 

The  soft,  low  winds,  the  liquid  lull, 

The  whited,  silent,  misty  realm, 

The  wan-blue  heaven,  each  ghostly  elm, 

All  these,  her  ministers,  conspire 

To  fill  my  bosom  with  the  fire 

And  sweet  delirium  of  desire. 

Enchantress !   leave  thy  sheeny  height, 

Descend,  be  all  mine  own  this  night, 

Transfuse,  enfold,  entrance  me  quite ! 

Or  break  thy  spell,  my  heart  restore, 

And  disenchant  me  evermore  1 


SEKVICE. 

TTTHEN  I  beheld  a  lover  woo 

A  maid  unwilling, 
And  saw  what  lavish  deeds  men  do, 

Hope's  flagon  filling,  — 
What  vines  are  tilled,  what  wines  are  spilled, 

And  madly  wasted, 
To  fill  the  flask  that  's  never  filled, 

And  rarely  tasted : 

Devouring  all  life's  heritage, 

And  inly  starving ; 
Dulling  the  spirit's  mystic  edge, 

The  banquet  carving ; 
Feasting  with  Pride,  that  Barmecide 

Of  unreal  dishes  ; 
And  wandering  ever  in  a  wide, 

Wide  world  of  wishes  : 


SERVICE.  65 

For  gain  or  glory  lands  and  seas 
Endlessly  ranging, 

Safety  and  years  and  health  and  ease 
Freely  exchanging :  — 

When,  ever  as  I  moved,  I  saw 
The  world's  contagion, 

Then  turned,  0  Love !   to  thy  sweet  law- 
Arid  compensation,  — 

Well  might  red  shame  my  cheek  consume! 

0  service  slighted! 

0  Bride  of  Paradise,  to  whom 

1  long  was  plighted ! 

Do  I  with  burning  lips  profess 

To  serve  thee  wholly, 
Yet  labor  less  for  blessedness 

Than  fools  for  folly  ? 

The  wary  worldling  spread  his  toils 

Whilst  I  was  sleeping  ; 
The  wakeful  miser  locked  his  spoils, 

Keen  vigils  keeping : 


66  SERVICE. 

I  loosed  the  latches  of  my  soul 

To  pleading  Pleasure, 
Who  stayed  one  little  hour,  and  stole 

My  heavenly  treasure. 

A  friend  for  friend's  sake  will  endure 

Sharp  provocations  ; 
And  knaves  are  cunning-  to  secure, 

By  cringing  patience, 
And  smiles  upon  a  smarting  cheek, 

Some  dear  advantage,  — 
Swathing  their  grievances  in  meek 

Submission's  bandage. 

Yet  for  thy  sake  I  will  not  take 

One  drop  of  trial, 
But  raise  rebellious  hands  to  break 

The  bitter  vial. 
At  hardship's  surly-visaged  churl 

My  spirit  sallies  ; 
And  melts,  0  Peace  !    thy  priceless  pearl 

In  passion's  chalice. 


SERVICE.  67 

Yet  never  quite,  in  darkest  night, 

Was  I  forsaken  : 
Down  trickles  still  some  starry  rill 

My  heart  to  waken. 
0  Love  Divine  !   could  I  resign 

This  changeful  spirit 
To  walk  thy  ways,  what  wealth  of  grace 

Might  I  inherit ! 

If  one  poor  flower  <  of  thanks  to  thee 

Be  truly  given, 
All  night  thou  snowest  down  to  me 

Lilies  of  heaven ! 
One  task  of  human  love  fulfilled, 

Thy  glimpses  tender 
My  days  of  lonely  labor  gild 

With  gleams  of  splendor  ! 

One  prayer,  —  "  Thy  will,  not  mine  !  "  —  and  bright, 

O'er  all  my  being, 
Breaks  blissful  light,  that  gives  to  sight 

A  subtler  seeing; 


68  SERVICE. 

Straightway  mine  ear  is  tuned  to  hear 

Ethereal  numbers, 
Whose  secret  symphonies  insphere 

The  dull  earth's  slumbers. 

"Thy  will!"  —  and  I  am  armed  to  meet 

Misfortune's  volleys  ; 
For  every  sorrow  I  have  sweet, 

0,  sweetest  solace! 
"Thy  will!"  —  no  more  I  hunger  sore, 

For  angels  feed  me ; 
Henceforth  for  days,  by  peaceful  ways, 

They  gently  lead  me. 

For  me  the  diamond  dawns  are  set 

In  rings  of  beauty, 
And  all  my  paths  are  dewy  wet 

With  pleasant  duty  ; 
Beneath  the  boughs  of  calm  content 

My  hammock  swinging, 
In  their  green  tent  my  eves  are  spent, 

Thy  praises  singing. 


AT    SEA. 

rflHE  night  is  made  for  cooling  shade, 

For  silence,  and  for  sleep  ; 
And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 
My  hands  upon  my  breast  and  prayed, 

And  sank  to  slumbers  deep: 
Childlike  as  then,  I  lie  to-night, 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin  light. 

Each  movement  of  the  swaying  lamp 

Shows  how  the  vessel  reels : 
As  o'er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp, 

With  every  shock  she  feels, 
It  starts  and  shudders,  while  it  burns, 
And  in  its  hinged  socket  turns. 

Now  swinging  slow,  and  slanting  low, 
It  almost  level  lies ; 


70  AT  SEA. 

And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
I  watch  the  seeming  pendule  go 

With  restless  fall  and  rise, 
The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 
Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

0  hand  of  God  1   0  lamp  of  peace ! 
0  promise  of  my  soul !  — 

Though  weak,  and  tossed,  and  ill  at  ease, 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas, 
The  ship's  convulsive  roll, 

1  own,  with  love  and  tender  awe, 
Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law  I 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms, 

My  soul  is  filled  with  light: 
The  ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms, 
The  wild  winds  chant :   I  cross  my  palms, 

Happy  as  if,  to-night, 
Under  the  cottage-roof,  again 
I  heard  the  soothing  summer-rain. 


EEAL    ESTATE. 

rilHE  pleasant  grounds  are  greenly  turfed  and  graded  ; 

A  sturdy  porter  waiteth  at  the  gate  ; 
The  graceful  avenues,  serenely  shaded, 
And  curving  paths,  are  interlaced  and  braided 
In  many  a  maze  around  my  fair  estate. 

Here  blooms  the  early  hyacinth,  and  clover 

And  amaranth  and  myrtle  wreathe  the  ground ; 

The  pensive  lily  leans  her  pale  cheek  over  ; 

And  hither  comes  the  bee,  light-hearted  rover, 

V\rooing  the  sweet-breathed  flowers  with  soothing 
sound.  , 

Intwining,  in  their  manifold  digressions, 

Lands  of  my  neighbors,  wind  these  peaceful  ways. 
The  masters,  coming  to  their  calm  possessions, 
Followed  in  solemn  state  by  long  processions, 

Make  quiet  journeys  these  still  summer  days. 


72  EEAL  ESTATE. 

This  is  my  freehold  !  Elms  and  fringy  larches, 
Maples  and  pines,  and  stately  firs  of  Norway, 

Build  round  me  their  green  pyramids  and  arches ; 

Sweetly  the  robin  sings,  while  slowly  marches 

The  stately  pageant  past  my  verdant  doorway. 

0,  sweetly  sing  the  robin  and  the  sparrow  ! 

But  the  pale  tenant  very  silent  rides. 
A  low  green  roof  receiveth  him  ;  —  so  narrow 
His  hollowed  tenement,  a  school-boy's  arrow 

Might  span  the  space  betwixt  its  grassy  sides. 

The  flowers  around  him  ring  their  wind-swung  chalices, 

A  great  bell  tolls  the  pageant's  slow  advance. 
The  poor  alike,  and  lords  of  parks  and  palaces,  - 
From  all  their  busy  schemes,  their  fears  and  fallacies, 
Find  here  their  rest  and  sure  inheritance. 

No  more  hath  Caesar  or  Sardanapalus  ! 

Of  all  our  wide  dominions,  soon  or  late, 
Only  a  fathom's  space  can  aught  avail  us ; 
This  is  the  heritage  that  shall  not  fail  us  : 

Here  man  at  last  comes  to  his  Real  Estate. 


REAL  ESTATE.  73 

"  Secure  to  him  and  to  his  heirs  forever  "  ! 

Nor  wealth  nor  want  shall  vex  his  spirit  more. 
Treasures  of  hope  and  love  and  high  endeavor 
Follow  their  blest  proprietor  ;    but  never 

Could  pomp  or  riches  pass  this  little  door. 

Flatterers  attend  him,  but  alone  he  enters, — 

Shakes  off  the  dust  of  earth,  no  more  to  roam. 
His  trial  ended,  sealed  his  soul's  indentures, 
The  wanderer,  weary  from  his  long  adventures, 
Beholds  the  peace  of  his  eternal  home. 

Lo,  more  than  life  Man's  great  Estate  comprises ! 

While  for  the  earthly  corner  of  his  mansion 
A  little  nook  in  shady  Time  suffices, 
The  rainbow-pillared  heavenly  roof  arises 

Ethereal  in  limitless  expansion  ! 


THE    MASKERS. 

YESTERNIGHT,  as  late  I  strayed 

Through  the  orchard's  mottled  shade, 
Coming1  to  the  moonlit  alleys, 
Where  the  sweet  south-wind,  that  dallies 
All  day  with  the  Queen  of  Roses, 
All  night  on  her  breast  reposes,  — 
Drinking  from  the  dewy  blooms, 
Silences,  and  scented  glooms 
Of  the  warm-breathed  summer  night, 
Long,  deep  draughts  of  pure  delight,  — 
Quick  the  shaken  foliage  parted, 
And  from  out  its  shadows  darted 
Dwarf-like  forms,  with  hideous  faces, 
Cries,  contortions,  and  grimaces. 

Still  I  stood  beneath  the  lonely, 
Sighing  lilacs,  saying  only,  — 


THE  MASKERS.  75 

"  Little  friends,  you  can't  alarm  me  ; 
Well  I  know  you  would  not  harm  me ! " 
Straightway  dropped  each  painted  mask, 
Sword  of  lath,  and  paper  casque, 
And  a  troop  of  rosy  girls 
Ran  and  kissed  me  through  their  curls. 

Caught  within  their  net  of  graces, 
I  looked  round  on  shining  faces. 
Sweetly  through  the  moonlit  alleys 
Rang  their  laughter's  silver  sallies. 
Then  along  the  pathway,  light 
With  the  white  bloom  of  the  night, 
I  went  peaceful,  pacing  slow, 
Captive  held  in  arms  of  snow. 

Happy  maids  !    of  you  I  learn 
Heavenly  maskers  to  discern  ! 
So,  when  seeming  griefs  and  harms 
Fill  life's  garden  with  alarms, 
Through  its  inner  walks  enchanted 
I  will  ever  move  undaunted. 


76  THE  MASKERS. 

Love  hath  messengers  that  borrow 
Tragic  masks  of  fear  and  sorrow, 
When  they  come  to  do  us  kindness,  — 
And  but  for  our  tears  and  blindness, 
We  should  see,  through  each  disguise, 
Cherub  cheeks  and  angel  eyes. 


BY    THE    RIVER. 


TN  the  beautiful  greenwood's  charmeM  light, 

And  down  through  the  meadows  wide  and  bright. 
Deep  in  the  silence,  and  smooth  in  the  gleam, 
For  ever  and  ever  flows  the  stream. 

Where  the  mandrakes  grow,  and  the  pale,  thin  grass 

The  airy  scarf  of  the  woodland  weaves, 

By  dim,  enchanted  paths  I  pass, 

Crushing  the  twigs  and  the  last  year's  leaves. 

Over  the  wave,  by  the  crystal  brink, 
A  kingfisher  sits  on  a  low,  dead  limb  : 
He  is  always  sitting  there,  I  think,  — 
And  another,  within  the  crystal  brink, 
Is  always  pendent  under  him. 


78  BY   THE  RIVER. 

I  know  where  an  old  tree  leans  across 

From  bank  to  bank,  an  ancient  tree, 

Quaintly  cushioned  with  curious  moss, 

A  bridge  for  the  cool  wood-nymphs  and  me : 

Half  seen  they  flit,  while  here  I  sit 

By  the  magical  water,  watching  it. 

In  its  bosom  swims  the  fair  phantasm 

Of  a  subterraneous  azure  chasm, 

So  soft  and  clear,  you  would  say  the  stream 

Was  dreaming  of  heaven  a  visible  dream. 

Where  the  noontide  basks,  and  its  warm  rays  tint 

The  nettles  and  clover  and  scented  mint, 

And  the  crinkled  airs,  that  curl  and  quiver, 

Drop  their  wreaths  in  the  mirroring  river,  — 

Under  the  shaggy  magnificent  drapery 

Of  many  a  wild-woven  native  grapery,  — 

By  ivy-bowers,  and  banks  of  violets, 

And  golden  hillocks,  and  emerald  islets, 

Along  its  sinuous  shining  bed. 

In  sheets  of  splendor  it  lies  outspread. 


BY  THE  RIVER.  79 

In  the  twilight  stillness  and  solitude 

Of  green  caves  roofed  by  the  brooding  wood, 

Where  the  woodbine  swings,  and  beneath  the  trailing 

Sprays  of  the  queenly  elm-tree  sailing,  — 

By  ribbed  and  wave-worn  ledges  shimmering, 

Gilding  the  rocks  with  a  rippled  glimmering, 

All  pictured  over  in  shade  and  sun, 

The  wavering  silken  waters  run. 

Upon  this  mossy  trunk  I  sit, 

Over  the  river,  watching  it. 

A  shadowed  face  peers  up  at  me ; 

And  another  tree  in  the  chasm  I  see, 

Clinging  above  the  abyss  it  spans ; 

The  broad  boughs  curve  their  spreading  fans, 

From  side  to  side,  in  the  nether  air  ; 

And  phantom  birds  in  the  phantom  branches 

Mimic  the  birds  above ;  and  there, 

Oh  !   far  below,  solemn  and  slow, 

The  white  clouds  roll  the  crumbling  snow 

Of  ever-pendulous  avalanches, 

Till  the  brain  grows  giddy,  gazing  through 

Their  wild,  wide  rifts  of  bottomless  blue. 


80  BY  THE  RIVER. 


n. 

THROUGH  the  river,  and  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  sundered  earth  I  gaze, 

While  Thought  on  dreamy  pinion  drifts, 

Over  cerulean  bays, 

Into  the  deep  ethereal  sea 

Of  her  own  serene  eternity. 

Transfigured  by  my  tranced  eye, 

Wood  and  meadow,  and  stream  and  sky, 

Like  vistas  of  a  vision  lie  : 

THE  WORLD  is  th*e  Eiver  that  nickers  by. 

Its  skies  are  the  blue-arched  centuries ; 
And  its  forms  are  the  transient  images 
Flung  on  the  flowing  film  of  Time 
By  the  steadfast  shores  of  a  fadeless  clime. 

As  yonder  wave-side  willows  grow, 
Substance  above,  and  shadow  below, 


BY  THE  RIVER.  81 

The  golden  slopes  of  that  upper  sphere 
Hang  their  imperfect  landscapes  here. 

Fast  by"  the  Tree  of  Life,  which  shoots 
Duplicate  forms  from  selfsame  roots, 
Under  the  fringes  of  Paradise, 
The  crystal  brim  of  the  River  lies. 

There  are  banks  of  Peace,  whose  lilies  pure 

Paint  on  the  wave  their  portraiture ; 

And  many  a  holy  influence, 

That  climbs  to  God  like  the  breath  of  prayer, 

Creeps  quivering  into  the  glass  of  sense, 

To  bless  the  immortals  mirrored  there. 

Through  realms  of  Poesy,  whose,  white  cliffs 

Cloud  its  deeps  with  their  hieroglyphs, 

Alpine  fantasies  heaped  and  wrought 

At  will  by  the  frolicsome  winds  of  Thought,  — 

By  shores  of  Beauty,  whose  colors  pass 

Faintly  into  the  misty  glass,  — 

By  hills  of  Truth,  whose  glories  show 

4  I, 


82  BY  THE  RIVER. 

Distorted,  broken,  and  dimmed,  as  we  snow, 
Kissed  by  the  tremulous  long  green  tress 
Of  the  glistening  tree  of  Happiness, 
Which  ever  our  aching  grasp  eludes 
With  sweet  illusive  similitudes,  — 
All  pictured  over  in  shade  and  gleam, 
For  ever  and  ever  runs  the  Stream. 

The  orb  that  burns  in  the  rifts  of  space 
Is  the  adumbration  of  God's  Face. 
My  Soul  leans  over  the  murmuring  flow, 
And  I  am  the  image  it  sees  below. 


THE    NAME    IN    THE    BAEK. 

[E  self  of  so  long  ago, 
And  the  self  I  struggle  to  know, 
I  sometimes  think  we  are  two,  —  or  are  we  shadows 

of  one  ? 

To-day  the  shadow  I  am 
Returns  in  the  sweet  summer  calm 
To  trace  where  the  earlier  shadow  flitted  awhile  in  the 
sun. 

Once  more  in  the  dewy  morn 

I  came  through  the  whispering  corn  ; 

Cool  to  my  fevered  cheek  soft  breezy  kisses  were  blown  ; 
The  ribboned  and  tasselled  grass 
Leaned  over  the  flattering  glass, 

And  the  sunny  waters  trilled  the  same  low  musical  tone. 

To  the  gray  old  birch  I  came, 

Where  I  whittled  my  school-boy  name: 


84  THE  NAME  IN  THE  BARK. 

The  nimble  squirrel  once  more  ran  skippingly  over  the 
rail, 

The  blackbirds  down  among 

The  alders  noisily  sung, 
And  under  the  blackberry-brier  whistled  the  serious  quail. 

I  came,  remembering  well 

How  my  little  shadow  fell, 

As   I   painfully   reached    and    wrote    to   leave   to    the 
future  a  sign : 

There,  stooping  a  little,  I  found 

A  half-healed,  curious  wound, 
An  ancient  scar  in  the  bark,  but  no  initial  of  mine ! 

Then  the  wise  old  boughs  overhead 

Took  counsel  together,  and  said,  — 

And  the  buzz   of  their   leafy  lips   like    a    murmur    of 

prophecy  passed, — 
"  He  is  busily  carving  a  name 
In  the  tough  old  wrinkles  of  fame  ; 
But,  cut  he  as   deep   as   he   may,  the  lines  will  close 
over  at  last ! " 


THE  NAME  IN  THE  BARK.  85 

Sadly  I  pondered  awhile, 
Then  I  lifted  my  soul  with  a  smile, 
And  I  said,  "  Not  cheerful  men,  but  anxious  children 

are  we, 

Still  hurting  ourselves  with  the  knife, 
As  we  toil  at  the  letters  of  life, 

Just   marring   a    little    the    rind,    never   piercing    the 
heart  of  the  tree." 

And  now  by  the  rivulet's  brink 
I  leisurely  saunter,  and  think 
How  idle   this   strife  will   appear  when   circling   ages 

have  run, 

If  then  the  real  I  am 
Descend  from  the  heavenly  calm, 

To  trace  where  the  shadow  I  seem  once  flitted  awhile 
in  the  sun. 


LTEICS  OF  THE  WAR 


THE    LAST    BALLY. 

[NOVEMBER,  1864.] 

T3ALLY!   rally!  rally! 

Arouse  the  slumbering  land  f 
Rally  !   rally !    from  mountain  and  valley, 

From  city  and  ocean-strand! 
Ye  sons  of  the  West,  America's  best ! 

New  Hampshire's  men  of  might ! 
From  prairie  and  crag  unfurl  the  flag, 

And  rally  to  the  fight! 

Armies  of  untried  heroes, 

Disguised  in  craftsman  and  clerk  1 

Ye  men  of  the  coast,  invincible  host ! 
Come,  every  one,  to  the  work, — 

From  the  fisherman  gray  as  the  salt-sea  spray 
That  on  Long  Island  breaks, 


90  THE  LAST  RALLY. 

To  the  youth  who  tills  the  uttermost  hills 
By  the  blue  northwestern  lakes! 

Old  men  shall  fight  with  the  ballot, 

Weapon  the  last  and  best, — 
And  the  bayonet,  with  blood  red-wet, 

Shall  write  the  will  of  the  rest; 
And  the  boys  shall  fill  men's  places, 

And  the  little  maid  shall  rock 
Her  doll  as  she  sits  with  her  grandam  and  knitB 

An  unknown  hero's  sock. 

And  the  hearts  of  heroic  mothers, 

And  the  deeds  of  noble  wives, 
With  their  power  to  bless  shall  aid  no  less 

Than  the  brave  who  give  their  lives. 
The  rich  their  gold  shall  bring,  and  the  old 

Shall  help  us  with  their  prayers ; 
While  hovering  hosts  of  pallid  ghosts 

Attend  us  unawares. 

From  the  ghastly  fields  of  Shiloh 
Muster  the  phantom  bands, 


THE  LAST  RALLY.  91 

From  Virginia's  swamps,  and  Death's  white  camps 

On  Carolina  sands ; 
From  Fredericksburg,  and  Gettysburg, 

I  see  them  gathering  fast ; 
And  up  from  Manassas,  what  is  it  that  passes 

Like  thin  clouds  in  the  blast  ? 

From  the  Wilderness,  where  blanches 

The  nameless  skeleton  ; 
From  Vicksburg's  slaughter  and  red-streaked  water, 

And  the  trenches  of  Donelson ; 
From  the  cruel,  cruel  prisons, 

Where  their  bodies  pined  away, 
From  groaning  decks,  from  sunken  wrecks, 

They  gather  with  us  to-day. 

And  they  say  to  us,  "  Rally  I   rally  I 

The  work  is  almost  done ! 
Ye  harvesters,  sally  from  mountain  and  valley 

And  reap  the  fields  we  won  1 
We  sowed  for  endless  years  of  peace, 

We  harrowed  and  watered  well ; 


92  THE  LAST   RALLY. 

Our  dying  deeds  were  the  scattered  seeds: 
Shall  they  perish  where  they  fell  ?  " 

And  their  brothers,  left  behind  them 

In  the  deadly  roar  and  clash 
Of  cannon  and  sword,  by  fort  and  ford, 

And  the  carbine's  quivering  flash,  — 
Before  the  Rebel  citadel 

Just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
From  Georgia's  glens,  from  Florida's  fens, 

For  us  they  call,  they  call  I 

The  life-blood  of  the  tyrant 

Is  ebbing  fast  away  ; 
Victory  waits  at  her  opening  gates, 

And  smiles  on  our  array  ; 
With  solemn  eyes  the  Centuries 

Before  us  watching  stand, 
And  Love  lets  down  his  starry  crown 

To  bless  the  future  land. 

One  more  sublime  endeavor 
And  behold  the  dawn  of  Peace ! 


THE  LAST  RALLY.  93 

One  more  endeavor,  and  war  forever 

Throughout  the  land  shall  cease ! 
For  ever  and  ever  the  vanquished  power 

Of  Slavery  shall  be  slain, 
And  Freedom's  stained  and  trampled  flower 

Shall  blossom  white  again ! 


'T 


THE    COLOR-BEARER. 

WAS  a  fortress  to  be  stormed : 
Boldly  right  in  view  they  formed, 
All  as  quiet  as  a  regiment  parading : 
Then  in  front  a  line  of  flame ! 
Then  at  left  and  right  the  same  1 
Two  platoons  received  a  furious  enfilading. 
To  their  places  still  they  filed, 
And  they  smiled  at  the  wild 

Cannonading. 

« 

"'T  will  be  over  in  an  hour! 

'T  will  not  be  much  of  a  shower! 
Never  mind,  my  boys,"  said  he,  "a  little  drizzling ! 

Then  to  cross  that  fatal  plain, 

Through  the  whirring,  hurtling  rain 
Of  the  grape-shot,  and  the  minie-bullets'  whistling ! 

But  he  nothing  heeds  nor  shuns, 

As  he  runs  with  the  guns 
Brightly  bristling! 


THE   COLOR-BEARER.  95 

Leaving1  trails  of  dead  and  dying 

In  their  track,  yet  forward  flying 
Like  a  breaker  where  the  gale  of  conflict  rolled  them, 

With  a  foam  of  flashing  light 

Borne  before  them  on  their  bright 
Burnished  barrels,  —  0,  't  was  fearful  to  behold  them! 

While  from  ramparts  roaring  loud. 

Swept  a  cloud  like  a  shroud 
To  enfold  them ! 

0,  his  color  was  the  first ! 

Through  the  burying  cloud  he  burst, 
With  the  standard  to  the  battle  forward  slanted! 

Through  the  belching,  blinding  breath 

Of  the  flaming  jaws  of  Death, 
With  the  banner  on  the  bastion  to  be  planted ! 

By  the  screaming  shot  that  fell, 

And  the  yell  of  the  shell, 
Nothing  daunted. 

Right  against  the  bulwark  dashing, 
Over  tangled  branches  crashing, 


96  THE   COLOR-BEAKER. 

'Mid  the  plunging1  volleys  thundering  ever  louder, 

There  the  clambers,  there  he  stands, 

With  the  ensign  in  his  hands, — 
0,  was  ever  hero  handsomer  or  prouder  ? 

Streaked  with  battle-sweat  and  slime 

And  sublime  in  the  grime 
Of  the  powder ! 

'T  was  six  minutes,  at  the  least, 

Ere  the  closing  combat  ceased,  — 
Near  as  we  the  mighty  moments  then  could  measure,  — 

And  we  held  our  souls  with  awe, 

Till  his  haughty  flag  we  saw 
On  the  lifting  vapors  drifting  o'er  the  embrasure, 

Saw  it  glimmer  in  our  tears, 

While  our  ears  heard  the  cheers 
Rend  the  azure  ! 


Through  the  abatis  they  broke, 
Through  the  surging  cannon-smoke, 
And  they  drove  the  foe  before  like  frightened  cattle. 


THE  COLOR-BEARER.  97 

0,  but  never  wound  was  his, 
For  in  other  wars  than  this, 

Where  the  volleys  of  Life's  conflict  roll  and  rattle, 
He  must  still,  as  he  was  wont, 
In  the  front  bear  the  brunt 
Of  the  battle. 

He  shall  guide  the  van  of  Truth, 

And  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
Be  her  fearless,  be  her  peerless  Color-Bearer! 

With  his  high  and  bright  example, 

Like  a  banner  brave  and  ample, 
Ever  leading  through  receding  clouds  of  Error, 

To  the  empire  of  the  Strong, 

And  to  Wrong  he  shall  long 
Be  a  terror  1 


THE   JAGUAR    HUNT. 

[MAT,  1865.] 

rilHE  dark  jaguar  was  abroad  in  the  land ; 

His   strength  and   his  fierceness   what  foe   could 

withstand  ? 

The  breath  of  his  anger  was  hot  on  the  air, 
And  the  white  lamb  of  Peace  he  had  dragged  to  his  lair. 

Then  up  rose  the  Farmer ;   he  summoned  his  sons : 
"  Now  saddle  your  horses,  now  look  to  your  guns ! " 
And   he   called   to   his   hound,  as  he   sprang  from  the 

ground 
To  the  back  of  his  black  pawing  steed  with  a  bound. 

0,   their  hearts,   at  the  word,  how  they  tingled  and 

stirred  ! 

They  followed,  all  belted  and  booted  and  spurred. 
"Buckle  tight,  boys!"  said  he,  "for  who  gallops  with 

me, 
Such  a  hunt  as  was  never  before  he  shall  seel 


THE  JAGUAR  HUNT.  99 

"  This  traitor,  we  know  him  !  for  when  he  was  younger, 
We  flattered  him,  patted  him,  fed  his  fierce  hunger : 
But  now  far  too  long  we  have  borne  with  the  wrong, 
For  each   morsel   we    tossed    mates   him   savage   and 
strong." 

Then   said   one,   "He  must  die  1  "    And  they  took  up 

the  cry, 

"  For  this  last  crime  of  his  he  must  die !  he  must  die !  " 
But  the  slow  eldest-born  sauntered  sad  and  forlorn, 
For  his  heart  was  at  home  on  that  fair  hunting-morn. 

"  I  remember,"  he  said,  "  how  this  fine  cub  we  track 

Has  carried  me  many  a  time  on  his  back  !  " 

And   he   called  to   his    brothers,    "Fight   gently!    be 

kind !  " 
And  he  kept  the  dread  hound,  Ketribution,  behind. 

The  dark  jaguar  on  a  bough  in  the  brake 
Crouched,  silent  and  wily,  and  lithe  as  a  snake  : 
They  spied  not  their  game,  but,  as  onward  they  came, 
Through  the   dense  leafage  gleamed  two  red  eyeballs 
of  flame. 


100  THE  JAGUAR   HUNT. 

Black-spotted,  and  mottled,  and  whiskered,  and  grim, 
White-bellied,  and  yellow,  he  lay  on  the  limb, 
All  so  still  that  you  saw  but  just  one  tawny  paw . 
Lightly  reach  through  the  leaves  and  as  softly  withdraw. 

Then  shrilled  his  fierce  cry,  as  the  riders  drew  nigh, 
And  he  shot  from  the  bough  like  a  bolt  from  the  sky: 
In  the  foremost  he  fastened  his  fangs  as  he  fell, 
While  all  the  black  jungle  re-echoed  his  yell. 

O,  then  there  was  carnage  by  field  and  by  flood  I 
The  green  sod  was  crimsoned,  the  rivers  ran  blood, 
The  cornfields  were  trampled,  and  all  in  their  track 
The  beautiful  valley  lay  blasted  arid  black. 

Now  the  din  of  the  conflict  swells  deadly  and  loud, 
And  the  dust  of  the  tumult  rolls  up  like  a  cloud  : 
Then  afar  down  the  slope  of  the  Southland  recedes 
The  wild  rapid  clatter  of  galloping  steeds. 

With  wide  nostrils  smoking,  and  flanks  dripping  gore, 
The  black  stallion  bore  his  bold  rider  before, 
As  onward  they  thundered  through  forest  and  glen, 
A-hunting  the  dark  jaguar  to  his  den. 


THE  JAGUAR  HUNT.  101 


In  April,  sweet  April,  the  chase  was  begun ; 
It  was  April  again,  when  the  hunting  was  done : 
The  snows  of  four  winters  and  four  summers  green 
Lay  red-streaked  and  trodden  and  blighted  between. 

Then  the  monster  stretched  all  his  grim  length  on  the 

ground ; 

His  life-blood  was  wasting  from  many  a  wound ; 
Ferocious  and  gory  and  dying  he  lay, 
Amid  heaps  of  the  whitening  bones  of  his  prey. 

"  So  rapine  and  treason  forever  shall  cease  !  " 

And  they  wash  the  stained  fleece  of  the  pale  lamb  of 

Peace  ; 

When,  lo  !    a  strong  angel  stands  winge'd  and  whit^ 
In  a  wonderful  raiment  of  ravishing  light ! 

Peace  is  raised  from  the  dead  !    In  the  radiance  she«i 
By  the  halo  of  glory  that  shines  round  her  head, 
Fair    gardens    shall    bloom    where    the    black   jun<rln 

grew, 
And  all  the  glad  valley  shall  blossom  anew  I 


THE    SWORD    OP    BOLIVAR. 

[NOVEMBEB,  1866.] 

TTTITH  the  steadfast  stars  above  us, 

And  the  molten  stars  below, 
We  sailed  through  the  Southern  midnight, 
By  the  coast  of  Mexico. 

Alone,  on  the  desolate,  dark-ringed, 

Rolling  and  flashing  sea, 
A  grim  old  Venezuelan 

Kept  the  deck  with  me, 

And  talked  to  me  of  his  country, 

And  the  long  Spanish  war, 
And  told  how  a  young  Republic 

Forged  the  sword  of  Bolivar. 


THE   SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR.  103 

Of  no  base  mundane  metal 
"Was  the  wondrous  weapon  made, 

And  in  no  earth-born  fire 

Was  fashioned  the  sacred  blade. 

But  that  it  might  shine  the  symbol 

Of  law  and  light  in  the  land, 
Dropped  down  as  a  star  from  heaven, 

To  flame  in  a  hero's  hand, 

And  be  to  the  world  a  portent 

Of  eternal  might  and  right, 
They  chose  for  the  steel  a  splinter 

From  a  fallen  aerolite. 

Then  a  virgin  forge  they  builded 

By  the  city,  and  kindled  it 
With  flame  from  a  shattered  palm-tree, 

Which  the  lightning's  torch  had  lit,  — 

That  no  fire  of  earthly  passion 
Might  taint  the  holy  sword, 


104  THE   SWORD   OF  BOLIVAB. 

And  no  ancient  error  tarnish 
The  falchion  of  the  Lord. 

For  Quito  and  New  Granada 

And  Venezuela  they  pour 
From  three  crucibles  the  dazzling 

White  meteoric  ore. 

\ 
In  three  ingots  it  is  moulded, 

And  welded  into  one, 
For  an  emblem  of  Colombia, 
Bright  daughter  of  the  sun ! 

It  is  drawn  on  a  virgin  anvil, 

It  is  heated  and  hammered  and  rolled, 

It  is  shaped  and  tempered  and  burnished, 
And  set  in  a  hilt  of  gold  ; 

For  thus  by  the  fire  and  the  hammer 

Of  war  a  nation  is  built, 
And  ever  the  sword  of  its  power 

Is  swayed  by  a  golden  hilt. 


THE  SWOBD   OF  BOLIVAR.  105 

Then  with  pomp  and  oratory 

The  mustachioed  senores  brought 

To  the  house  of  the  Liberator 

« 

The  weapon  they  had  wrought ; 

And  they  said,  in  their  stately  phrases, 

"0  mighty  in  peace  and  war! 
No  mortal  blade  we  bring  you, 

But  a  flaming  meteor. 

"  The  sword  of  the  Spaniard  is  broken, 

And  to  you  in  its  stead  is  given, 
To  lead  and  redeem  a  nation, 

This  ray  of  light  from  heaven." 

The  gaunt-faced  Liberator 

From  their  hands  the  symbol  took, 

And  waved  it  aloft  in  the  sunlight, 
With  a  high,  heroic  look  ; 

And  he  called  the  saints  to  witness : 
"  May  these  lips  turn  into  dust, 
5* 


106  THE  SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR 

And  this  right  hand  fail,  if  ever 
It  prove  recreant  to  its  trust! 

"  Never  the  sigh  of  a  bondman 
Shall  cloud  this  gleaming  steel, 

But  only  the  foe  and  the  traitor 
Its  vengeful  edge  shall  feel. 

• 
"  Never  a  tear  of  my  country 

Its  purity  shall  stain, 
Till  into  your  hands,  who  gave  it, 

I  render  it  again." 

Now  if  ever  a  chief  was  chosen 
To  cover  a  cause  with  shame, 

And  if  ever  there  breathed  a  caitiff, 
Bolivar  was  his  name. 

From  his  place  among  the  people 
To  the  highest  seat  he  went, 

By  the  winding  paths  of  party 
And  the  stair  of  accident. 


THE  SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR  107 

A  restless,  weak  usurper, 

Striving  to  rear  a  throne, 
Filling  his  fame  with  counsels 

And  conquests  not  his  own ;  — 

Now  seeming  to  put  from  him 

The  sceptre  of  command, 
Only  that  he  might  grasp  it 

With  yet  a  firmer  hand  ;  — 

His  country's  trusted  leader, 

In  league  with  his  country's  foes, 

Stabbing  the  cause  that  nursed  him, 
And  openly  serving  those  ;  — 

The  chief  of  a  great  republic 

Plotting  rebellion  still, — 
An  apostate  faithful  only 

To  his  own  ambitious  will. 

Drunk  with  a  vain  ambition, 
In  his  feeble,  reckless  hand, 


108  THE  SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR. 

The  sword  of  Eternal  Justice 
Became  but  a  brawler's  brand. 

And  Colombia  was  dissevered, 
Rent  by  factions,  till  at  last 

Her  place  among  the  nations 
Is  a  memory  of  the  past. 

Here  the  grim  old  Venezuelan 
Puffed  fiercely  his  red  cigar 

A  brief  moment,  then  in  the  ocean 
It  vanished  like  a  star : 

And  he  slumbered  in  his  hammock ; 

And  only  the  ceaseless  rush 
Of  the  reeling  and  sparkling  waters 

Filled  the  solemn  midnight  hush, 

Asvl  leaned  by  the  swinging  gunwale 
Of  the  good  ship,  sailing  slow, 

With  the  steadfast  heavens  above  her, 
And  the  molten  heavens  below. 


THE  SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR.  109 

Then  I  thought  with  sorrow  and  yearning 

Of  my  own  distracted  land, 
And  the  sword  let  down  from  heaven 

To  flame  in  her  ruler's  hand,  — 

The  sword  of  Freedom,  resplendent 

As  a  beam  of  the  morning  star, 
Received,  reviled,  and  dishonored 

By  another  than  Bolivar  I 


LIGHTER   PIECES. 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND    HIS    FLYING- MACHINE. 


TF  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad',. 
Wise  or  otherwise,  good  or  bad, 
Who,  seeing  the  birds  fly,  did  n't  jump 
With  flapping  arms  from  stake  or  stump, 

Or,  spreading  the  tail 

Of  his  coat  for  a  sail, 
Take  a  soaring  leap  from  post  or  rail, 

And  wonder  why 

He  could  n't  fly, 

And  flap  and  flutter  and  wish  and  try,  — 
If  ever  you  knew  a  country  dunce 
Who  did  n't  try  that  as  often  as  once, 
All  I  can  say  is,  that  's  a  sign 
He  never  would  do  for  a  hero  of  mine. 

An  aspiring  genius  was  D.  Green : 
The  son  of  a  farmer,  —  age  fourteen  ; 


114          DARIUS   GREEN   AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE. 

His  body  was  long  and  lank  and  lean,  — 

Just  right  for  flying,  as  will  be  seen  ; 

He  had  two  eyes  as  bright  as  a  bean, 

And  a  freckled  nose  that  grew  between, 

A  little  awry,  —  for  I  must  mention 

That  he  had  riveted  his  attention 

Upon  his  wonderful  invention, 

Twisting  his  tongue  as  he  twisted  the  strings 

And  working  his  face  as  he  worked  the  wings, 

And  with  every  turn  of  gimlet  and  screw 

Turning  and  screwing  his  mouth  round  too. 

Till  his  nose  seemed  bent 

To  catch  the  scent, 

Around  some  corner,  of  new-baked  pies, 
And  his  wrinkled  cheeks  and  his  squinting  eyes 
Grew  puckered  into  a  queer  grimace, 
That  made  him  look  very  droll  in  the  face, 

And  also  very  wise. 

And  wise  he  must  have  been,  to  do  more 
Than  ever  a  genius  did  before, 
Excepting  Daedalus  of  yore 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING -MACHINE.          115 

And  his  son  Icarus,  who  wore 

Upon  their  backs 

Those  wings  of  wax 
He  had  read  of  in  the  old  almanacks. 
Darius  was  clearly  of  the  opinion, 
That  the  air  was  also  man's  dominion, 
And  that,  with  paddle  or  fin  or  pinion, 

We  soon  or  late 

Should  na\Tigate 

The  azure  as  now  we  sail  the  sea. 
The  thing  looks  simple  enough  to  me; 

And  if  you  doubt  it, 
Hear  how  Darius  reasoned  about  it. 

"  The  birds  can  fly, 

An'  why  can't  I? 

Must  we  give  in," 

Says  he  with  a  grin, 

"  'T  the  bluebird  an'  phoebe 

Are  smarter  'n  we  be  ? 
Jest  fold  our  hands  an'  see  the  swaller 
An'  blackbird  an'  catbird  beat  us  holler  ? 


116          DARIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE. 

Doos  the  leetle  chatterin',  sassy  wren, 

No  bigger  'n  my  thumb,  know  more  than  men  ? 

Jest  show  me  that ! 

Er  prove  't  the  bat 

Hez  got  more  brains,  than  's  in  my  hat, 
An'  I  '11  back  down,  an'  not  till  then !  " 

He  argued  further :    "  Ner  I  can't  see 
What  's  th'  use  o'  wings  to  a  bumble-bee, 
Fer  to  git  a  livin'  with,  more  'n  to  me  ;  — 

Ain't  my  business 

Importanter  'n  his'n  is  ? 

"  That  Icarus 

Was  a  silly  cuss,  — 
Him  an'  his  daddy  Daedalus. 
They  might  'a'  knowed  wings  made  o'  wax 
Would  n't  Stan'  sun-heat  an'  hard  whacks. 

I  '11  make  mine  o'  luther, 

Er  suthin'  er  other." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tinkered  and  planned : 
"  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  show  my  hand 


DARIUS   GKEEN  AND   HIS  FLYING- MACHINE.          117 

To  immmies  that  never  can  understand 
The  fust  idee  that  's  big  an'  grand. 

They  'd  V  laft  an'  made  fun 
0'  Creation  itself  afore  't  was  done  1  " 
So  he  kept  his  secret  from  all  the  rest, 
Safely  buttoned  within  his  vest ; 
And  in  the  loft  above  the  shed 
Himself  he  locks,  with  thimble  and  thread 
And  wax  and  hammer  and  buckles  and  screws, 
And  all  such  things  as  geniuses  use  ;  — 
Two  bats  for  patterns,  curious  fellows  1 
A  charcoal-pot  and  a  pair  of  bellows  ; 
An  old  hoop-skirt  or  two,  as  well  as 
Some  wire,  and  several  old  umbrellas  ; 
A  carriage-cover,  for  tail  and  wings  ; 
A  piece  of  harness  ;    and  straps  and  strings  ; 

And  a  big  strong  box, 

In  which  he  locks 
These  and  a  hundred  other  things. 

His  grinning  brothers,  Reuben  and  Burke 
And  Nathan  and  Jotham  and  Solomon,  lurk 


118         DARIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS  FLYING-MACHINE. 

Around  the  corner  to  see  him  work,  — 

Sitting  cross-legged,  like  a  Turk, 

Drawing  the  waxed-end  through  with  a  jerk, 

And  boring  the  holes  with  a  comical  quirk 

Of  his  wise  old  head,  and  a  knowing  smirk. 

But  vainly  they  mounted  each  other's  backs, 

And  poked  through  knot-holes  and  pried  through  cracks 

With  wood  from  the  pile  and  straw  from  the  stacks 

He  plugged  the  knot-holes  and  calked  the  cracks  ; 

And  a  bucket  of  water,  which  one  would  think 

He  had  brought  up  into  the  loft  to  drink 

When  he  chanced  to  be  dry, 

Stood  always  nigh, 

For  Darius  was  sly  I 

And  whenever  at  work  he  happened  to  spy 
At  chink  or  crevice  a  blinking  eye, 
He  let  a  dipper  of  water  fly. 
"Take  that!    an'  ef  ever  ye  git  a  peep, 
Guess  ye  '11  ketch  a  weasel  asleepl  " 

And  he  sings  as  he  locks 

His  big  strong  box:  — 


DAEIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE.          119 

SONG. 

"  The  weasel's  head  is  small  an'  trim, 

An'  he  is  leetle  an'  long  an'  slim, 

An'  quick  of  motion  an'  nimble  of  limb, 

An'  ef  yeou  '11  be 

Advised  by  me, 
Keep  wide  awake  when  ye  're  ketchin'  him  I " 

So  day  after  day 
He  stitched  and  tinkered  and  hammered  away, 

Till  at  last  't  was  done, — 
The  greatest  invention  under  the  sun  ! 
"An'  now,"  says  Darius,  "hooray  fer  some  fun!" 

'T  was  the  Fourth  of  July, 

And  the  weather  was  dry, 
And  not  a  cloud  was  on  all  the  sky, 
Save  a  few  light  fleeces,  which  here  and  there, 

Half  mist,  half  air, 
Like  foam  on  the  ocean  went  floating  by  : 


120         DARIUS  GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE. 

Just  as  lovely  a  morning  as  ever  was  seen 
For  a  nice  little  trip  in  a  flying-machine. 

Thought  cunning  Darius  :    "  Now  I  sha'  n't  go 
Along  'ith  the  fellers  to  see  the  show. 
I  Ml  say  I  've  got  sich  a  terrible  cough ! 
An'  then,  when  the  folks  'ave  all  gone  off, 

I  '11  hev  full  swing 

Fer  to  try  the  thing, 
An'  practyse  a  leetle  on  the  wing." 

"  Ain't  goin'  to  see  the  celebration  ?  " 
Says  Brother  Nate.     "No;    botheration! 
I  Ve  got  sich  a  cold  —  a  toothache  —  I  — 
My  gracious! — feel  's  though  I  should  fly!" 

Said  Jotham,  "'Sho! 

Guess  ye  better  go." 

But  Darius  said,  "  No  ! 

Should  n't  wonder  'f  yeou  might  see  me,  though, 
'Long  'bout  noon,  ef  I  git  red 
0'  this  jumpin',  thurnpin'  pain  'n  my  head." 
J.  or  all  the  while  to  himself  he  said :  — 


DARIUS   GREEN   AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHINE.          121 

"  I  tell  ye  what ! 

I  '11  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot, 
To  see  how  't  seems,  then  soon  's  I  've  got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely  's  not, 

I  '11  astonish  the  nation, 

An'  all  creation, 
By  flyin'  ovgr  the  celebration  ! 
Over  their  heads  I  '11  sail  like  an  eagle ; 
I  '11  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like  a  sea-gull  ; 
I  '11    dance    on    the    chimbleys  ;    I  '11    stan'    on    the 

steeple ; 

I  '11  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the  people! 
I  '11  light  on  the  libbe'ty-pole,  an'  crow  ; 
An'  I  '11  say  to  the  gawpin'  fools  below, 

'What  world  's  this  'ere 

That  I  've  come  near  ?  ' 

Fer  I  '11  make  'em  b'lieve  I  ?m  a  chap  f 'm  the  moon ; 
An'  I  '11  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  bulloon!" 

He  crept  from  his  bed ; 

And,  seeing  the  others  were  gono,  he  said, 
"I  ;m  a  gittiu'  over  the  cold  'n  my  head." 
2 


122          DAEIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE. 

And  away  he  sped, 
To  open  the  wonderful  box  in  the  shed. 

His  brothers  had  walked  but  a  little  way 

When  Jotham  to  Nathan  chanced  to  say, 

"  What  on  airth  is  he  up  to,  hey  ?  " 

"  DonV,  — the'  's  suthiri'  er  other  to  pay, 

Er  he  would  n't  'a'  stayed  to  hum  to-day." 

Says  Burke,  "  His  toothache  's  all  'n  his  eye ! 

He  never  'd  miss  a  Fo'th-o'-July, 

Ef  he  hed  n't  got  some  machine  to  try." 

Then  Sol,  the  little  one,  spoke  :    "  By  darn  ! 

Le  's  hurry  back  an'  hide  'n  the  barn, 

An'  pay  him  fer  tellin'  us  that  yarn!" 

"Agreed!"    Through  the  orchard  they  creep  b.ick, 

Along  by  the  fences,  behind  the  stack, 

And  one  by  one,  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

In  under  the  dusty  barn  they  crawl, 

Dressed  in  their  Sunday  garments  all  ; 

And  a  very  astonishing  sight  was  that, 

When  each  in  his  cobwebbed  coat  and  hat 

Came  up  through  the  floor  like  an  ancient  rat. 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND  HIS   FLYING-MACHINE.          123 

And  there  they  hid  ; 

And  Reuben  slid 
The  fastenings  back,  and  the  door  undid.   - 

"  Keep  dark  !  "  said  he, 
"  While  I  squint  an'  see  what  the'  is  to  see." 

As  knights  of  old  put  on  their  mail,  — 

From  head  to  foot 

An  iron  suit, 

Iron  jacket  and  iron  boot, 
Iron  breeches,  and  on  the  head 
No  hat.,  but  an  iron  pot  instead, 

And  under  the  chin  the  bail,  — 
I  believe  they  called  the  thing  a  helm  ; 
And  the  lid  they  carried  they  called  a  shield ; 
And,  thus  accoutred,  they  took  the  field, 
Sallying  forth  to  overwhelm 
The  dragons  and  pagans  that  plagued  the  realm  :  — 

So  this  modern  knight 
Prepared  for  flight, 
Put  on  his  wings  and  strapped  them  tight ; 


124          DARIUS   GREEN   AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE. 

Jointed  and  jaunty,  strong  and  light  ; 
Buckled  them  fast  to  shoulder  and  hip,  — 
Ten  feet  they  measured  from  tip  to  tip  I 
And  a  helm  had  he,  but  that  he  wore, 
Not  on  his  head  like  those  of  yore, 
But  more  like  the  helm  of  a  ship. 

"  Hush  !  "   Reuben  said, 

"  He  's  up  in  the  shed  ! 
He  7s  opened  the  winder,  —  I  see  his  head  ! 

He  stretches  it  out, 

An'  pokes  it  about, 
Lookin'  to  see  'f  the  coast  is  clear, 

An'  nobody  near  ;  — 
Guess  he  don'o'  who  's  hid  in  here  ! 
He  's  riggin'  a  spring-board  over  the  sill  ! 
Stop  laflSn',  Solomon!   Burke,  keep  still! 
He  's  a  climbin'  out  now  —     Of  all  the  things 
What  's  he  got  on  ?     I  van,  it  's  wings  ! 
An'  that  't  other  thing  ?     I  vum,  it  's  a  tail  ! 
An'  there  he  sets  like  a  hawk  on  a  rail ! 
Steppin'  careful,  he  travels  the  length 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHINE.          125 

Of  his  spring-board,  and  teeters  to  try  its  strength. 

Now  he  stretches  his  wings,  like  a  monstrous  bat ; 

Peeks  over  his  shoulder,  this  way  an'  that, 

Fer  to  see  'f  the'  's  any  one  passin'  by  ; 

But  the'  's  on'y  a  ca'f  an'  a  goslin'  nigh. 

They  turn  up  at  him  a  wonderin'  eye, 

To  see  —    The  dragon  !    he  's  gain'  to  fly ! 

Away  he  goes  !     Jimminy  !   what  a  jump  ! 

Flop  —  flop — .an'  plump 

To  the  ground  with  a  thump  ! 
Flutt'rin'  an'  flound'rin',  all  'n  a  lump  !  " 

As  a  demon  is  hurled  by  an  angel's  spear, 
Heels  over  head,  to  his  proper  sphere, — 
Heels  over  head,  and  head  over  heels, 
Dizzily  down  the  abyss  he  wheels,  — 
So  fell  Darius.     Upon  his  crown, 
In  the  midst  of  the  barn-yard,  he  came  down, 
In  a  wonderful  whirl  of  tangled  strings, 
Broken  braces  and  broken  springs, 
Broken  tail  and  broken  wings, 
Shooting-stars,  and  various  things,— 


126          DARIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE. 

Barn-yard  litter  of  straw  and  chaff, 

And  much  that  was  n't  so  sweet  by  half. 

Away  with  a  bellow  fled  the  calf, 

And  what  was  that  ?    Did  the  gosling  laugh  ? 

'T  is  a  merry  roar 

From  the  old  barn-door, 
And  he  hears  the  voice  of  Jotham  crying, 
"Say,  D'rius!   how  de  yeou  like  flyin'?" 

Slowly,  ruefully,  where  he  lay, 

Darius  just  turned  and  looked  that  way, 

As  he  stanched  his  sorrowful  nose  with  his  cuff. 

"  Wai,  I  like  flyin'  well  enough," 

He  said ;  "  but  the'  ain't  sich  a  thunderin'  sight 

0'  fun  in  't  when  ye  come  to  light." 

MORAL. 

I  just  have  room  for  the  moral  here : 
And  this  is  the  moral,  —  Stick  to  your  sphere. 
Or  if  you  insist,  as  you  have  the  right, 
On  spreading  your  wings  for  a  loftier  flight, 
The  moral  is, — Take  care  how  you  light. 


WATCHING    THE    CROWS. 

"  (^A  W,  caw  !"  —  You  don't  say  so  !  —  "  Caw,  caw  !  " 

—  What,  once  more  ? 

Seems  to  me  I  've  heard  that  observation  before, 
And  I  wish  you  would  some  time  begin  to  talk  sense. 
Come,  1  've  sat  here  about  long  enough  on  the  fence, 
And  I  'd  like  you  to  tell  me  in  confidence  what 
Are  your  present  intentions  regarding  this  lot? 
Why  don't  you  do  something  ?  or  else  go  away  ? 
"Caw,  caw!"  —  Does  that  mean   that  they  '11   go  or 

they  '11  stay? 
While  I  'm  watching  to  learn  what  they  're  up  to,  I 

see 
That  for  similar  reasons  they  're  just  watching  me  I 

That  's  right  I     Now  be   brave,    and   I  '11   show   you 

some  fun ! 
Just  light  within  twenty-nine  yards  of  my  gun  ! 


128  WATCHING   THE   CROWS. 

I  've  hunted  and  hunted  you  all  round  the  lot, 
Now  you  must  come  here,  if  you  want  to  be  shot! 
"Caw,    caw!"  —  There    they    go    again!      Is    n't    it 

strange 

How  they  always  contrive  to  keep  just  out  of  range? 
The  scamps  have  been  shot  at  so  often,  they  know 
To  a  rod  just  how  far  the  old  shot-gun  will  throw. 

Now   I  've   thought  how  I  '11   serve   'em   to-morrow  : 

I  Ml  play 
The    game    old    Jack    Haskell    played    with   'em    one 

day. 
His   snares  would  n't   catch  'em,  his   traps  would  n't 

spring, 

And,  in  spite  of  the  very  best  guns  he  could  bring 
To  bear  on  the  subject,  the  powder  he  spent, 
And  the  terriblest  scarecrows  his  wits  Could  invent  — 
Loud-clattering  windmills  and  fluttering  flags, 
Straw-stufled  old  codgers  rigged  out  in  his  rags, 
And  looking  quite  lifelike  in  tail-coat  and  cap, 
Twine   stretched    round    the    cornfield,    suggesting  a 

trap,  — 


WATCHING   THE   CROWS.  129 

Spite  of  all,  —  and  he  did  all  that  ever  a  man  did,  — 
They  pulled  his  corn  almost  before  it  was  planted  ! 
Then  he  built  him  an  ambush  right  out  in  the  field, 
Where  a  man  could  lie  down  at  his   ease,  quite   con- 
cealed ; 

But  though  he  kept  watch  in  it,  day  after  day, 
And  the  thieves  would  light  on  it  when  he  was  away-. 
And  tear  up  the  corn  all  around  it,  not  once 
Did  a  crow,  young  or  old,  show  himself  such  a  dunce 
As  to  come  within  hail  while  the  old  man  was  there; 
For  they  are  the  cunningest  fools,  I  declare  ! 
And,  seeing  him  enter,  they  reasoned,  no  doubt, 
That  he  must  be  in  there  until  he  came  out ! 

Thon,  one  morning,  says  he  to  young  Jack,  "  Now  I 

bet 

I  've  got  an  idee  that  '11  do  for  'em  yet ! 
Go  with  me  down  into  the  corn-lot  to-day ; 
Then,   when   I  ;m   well   placed  in   the   ambush,    I   '11 

stay, 
While  you  shoulder  your  gun  and  march  back  to  the 

barn  ; 

6*  I 


130  WATCHING   THE   CROWS, 

For  there  's  this  leetle  notion  crows  never  could  larn : 
They  can't  count,  as  I  '11  show  ye  !  "    And  show  him 

he  did  ! 

Young  Haskell  went  home  while  old  Haskell  lay  hid. 
And  the  crows'  education  had  been  so  neglected,  — 
They  were  so  poor  in  figures,  —  they  never  suspected, 
If  two  had  come  down,  and  one  only  went  back, 
Then  one  must  remain !     So,  no  sooner  was  Jack 
Out  of  sight,  than  again  to  the  field  they  came  flocking 
As  thick  as  three  rats  in  a  little  boy's  stocking. 
They  darkened  the  air,  and  they  blackened  the  ground  ; 
They  came  in  a  cloud  to  the  windmill,  and  drowned 
Its  loudest  clack-clack  with  a  louder  caw-caw! 
They  lit  on  the  tail-coat,  and  laughed  at  the  straw. 
"  By  time  !  "    says   old   Jack,    "  now    I  've   g'ot   ye  !  " 

Sang  I  bang  / 

Blazed  his  short  double-shooter  right  into  the  gang! 
Then,  picking  the  dead  crows  up  out  of  the  dirt,  he 
Was  pleased  to  perceive  that  he  'd  killed  about  thirty  ! 

Now  that  's  just  the  way  I  '11  astonish  the  rascals ! 
I  '11  set  up  an  ambush,  like  old  Mr.  Haskell's. — 


WATCHING   THE   CROWS.  131 

"Caw,  caw!  "  —  You  're  as  knowing  a  bird  as  I  know  : 
But  there  are  things  a  little  too  deep  for  a  crow! 
Just  add  one  to  one  now,  and  what  's  the  amount  ? 
You  're   mighty  'cute  creeturs,  but,   then,   you   can't 

count ! 

You  '11  see  if  I  don't  get  a  shot !     Yes,  I  '11  borrow 
Another  boy  somewhere  and  try  ye  to-morrow ! 


EVENING    AT    THE    FARM. 

/~\VER  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes. 

His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
A  giant  staff  in  a  giant  hand ; 
In  the  poplar-tree,  above  the  spring, 
The  katydid  begins  to  sing ; 

The  early  dews  are  falling ;  — 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink ; 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink ; 
And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the  crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 

Cheerily  calling, 

"Co',  boss!   co',  boss!   co' !   co' !   co'!" 
Farther,  farther,  over  the  hill, 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still, 

"  Co',  boss  !   co',  boss  !   co' !  co'  I  » 

Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

With  grateful  heart,  at  the  close  of  day : 


EVENING   AT   THE   FARM.  Ic  S 

Harness  and  chain  are  hung  away  ; 

In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke  and  plough, 

The  straw  's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in  the  mo^ 

The  cooling  dews  are  falling ;  — 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat, 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet, 
And  the  whinnying  mare  her  master  knows, 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

His  cattle  calling,  — 
"  Co',  boss  !   co',  boss  1   co' !   co' !   co' !  " 
While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away, 
Goes  seeking  those  that  have  gone  astray,  — 
"  Co',  boss  !    co',  boss  I    co'  1    co'  I  " 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes. 

The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 

Looing,  pushing,  little  and  great ; 

About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard  pump, 

The  frolicsome  yearlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  pleasant  dews  are  falling ;  — 
The  new  milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy, 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil  eye, 


134  EVENING  AT  THE  FABM. 

And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 
Soothingly  calling, 

"So,  boss!  so,  boss!  so!  so!  so!" 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool, 

Saying  "  So  !   so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  " 

To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes. 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed. 
Without,  the  crickets'  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long ; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling. 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the  lock ; 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen  clock ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose, 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 
Singing,  calling,  — 

"Co',  boss!    co'    boss!   coM   coM   coM" 
And  oft  the  milkmaid,  in  her  dreams, 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 

Murmuring  "  So,  boss  !    so  I  " 


THE    WILD    GOOSE. 

TTTHEN  gruff  winter  goes,  and  from  under  his  snows 

Peeps  the  infantine  clover, 

And  little  lambs  shrink  on  the  bleak  hills  of  March, 
And  April  comes  smiling  beneath  the  blue  arch, 
Then  the  forester  sees  from  his  door  the  wild  geese 
Flying  over. 

Some  to  Winnipeg's  shore;    those  to  cold  Labrador; 

Upon  dark  Memphremagog, 

Swift  flying,  loud  crying,  these  soon  shall  alight, 
And  station  their  sentries  to  guard  them  by  night, 
Or  marshal  their  ranks  to  the  thick-wooded  banks 
Of  Umbagog. 

Now  high  in  the  sky,  scarcely  seen  as  they  fly, 

Like  the  head  of  an  arrow 
Shot  free  from  its  shaft ;    then  a  dark-winge*d  chain  | 


136  THE  WILD   GOOSE. 

Or  at  eventide  wearily  over  the  plain, 
Flying  low,  flying  slow,  sagging,  lagging  they  go, 
Like  a  harrow. 

Soon  all  have  departed,  save  one  regal-hearted 

Sad  prisoner  only. 

No  more  shall  he  breast  the  blue  ether,  or  rest 
In  the  reeds  with  his  mate,  keeping  guard  by  her  nest,  — 
Never  glide  by  her  side  dpwn  the  green-fringed  tide 
Fair  and  lonely. 

With  clipped  pinions,  fast  in  a  farm-yard,  at  last 

They  have  caged  the  sky-ranger, 
'Mid  the  bustle  and  clucking  and  cackle  of  flocks, 
The  gossip  of  geese,  and  the  crowing  of  cocks  ; 
But  apart  from  the  rest,  with  his  proud-curving  breast, 
Walks  the  stranger. 

He  refuses,  with  scorn  braving  hunger,  the  corn 

From  the  hands  of  the  givers, 
Like  a  prince  in  captivity  pacing  his  path  ; 
Little  pleasure  he  hath  in  his  low,  stagnant  bath  ; 
In  that  green,  standing  pool  does  he  think  of  his  cool 
Northern  rivers? 


THE  WILD   GOOSE.  337 

Far  away,  far  away,  to  some  lone  lake  or  bay 

His  lost  comrades  are  thronging  ; 
In  fancy  he  follows  ;   he  hears  their  glad  halloos 
Round  beautiful  beaches,  in  bright  plashy  shallows : 
And  now  his  dark  eye  he  turns  up  at  the  sky 
With  wild  longing. 

He  hears  them  all  day,  singing,  winging  their  way, 

Over  mountains  and  torrents, 
To  Canadian  hills  and  their  clear  water-courses, 
To  the  Ottawa's  springs,  to  the   Saguenay's  sources  ; 
And  now  they  are  going  far  down  the  broad-flowing 
Saint  Lawrence. 

Over  grass-land  and  grove,  searching  inlet  and  cove, 

Speeds  in  dreams  the  wild  gander  ! 
He  listens,  he  hastens,  he  screams  on  their  track; 
They   hear  him,    they  cheer  him,    they    welcome   him 

back, 
They  shout   his   proud   name,  and   with  loud   clamors 

claim 
Their  Commander ! 


138  THE  WILD   GOOSE. 

Past  Huron  and  Saginaw,  far  over  Mackinaw, 

To  lovely  Itaska, 

Their  leader  he  goes ;    every  river  he  knows  ; 
They  flock  where  the  silver  Saskatchawan  flows, 
Or  sit  lightly  afloat  upon  high  and  remote 
Athabasca. 


With  his  consort  he  leads  forth  their  young  ones,  and 

feeds 

By  the  pleasant  morasses  ; 

He  shows  them  the  tender  young  crab,  and  the  bug, 
The  small  tented  snail,  and  the  slow  mantled  slug, 
And  laughs  as  they  eat  the  soft  seeds  and  the  sweet 
Water-grasses. 

But  danger  is  coming!     Lo,  strutting  and  drumming1, 

The  turkey-cock  charges! 

The  bright  fancy  breaks,  in  the  farm-yard  he  wakes  ; 
Nevermore  he  alights  on  the  blue  linked  lakes 
Of  the  North,  or  upsprings  upon  winnowing  wings 
From  their  marges ! 


THE  WILD   GOOSE.  139 

Here  all  the  long  summer  abides  the  new-comer 

In  chains  ignominious, 

Abandoned,  companionless,  far  from  his  mate  ; 
But  his  heart  is  still  great  though  dishonored  his  state, 
And  his  eyes  still  are  dreaming  of  glad  waters  gleaming 
And  sinuous. 

Then  the  rude  Equinox  drives  before  it  the  flocks 

Of  his  comrades  returning ; 
They  sail  on  the  gale  high  above  the  Ohio's 
Broad  ribbon,  descending  on  prairies  and  bayous; 
And  again  his  dark  eye  is  turned  up  at  the  sky 
With  wild  yearning. 

As  sunward  they  go,  far  below,  far  below, 

Coils  the  pale  Susquehanna  ! 

He  sees  them,  far  off  in  the  twilight,  encamp  as 
An  army  of  souls  upon  dim,  ruddy  pampas  ; 
Or  at  sunrise  arrayed  upon  green  everglade 
And  savanna. 

So  year  after  year,  as  their  legions  appear, 
His  lost  state  he  remembers ; 


140  THE  WILD   GOOSE. 

Wondering  and  wistful  he  watches  their  flight, 
Or  starts  at  their  cries  in  the  desolate  night, 
Dropped    down    to    his    hearkening    ear    through    the 

darkening 
Novembers. 


GREEN    APPLES. 

T)ULL  down  the  bough,  Bob !    Is  n't  this  fun  ? 
Now  give  it  a  shake,  and  —  there  goes  one! 
Now  put  your  thumb  up  to  the  other,  and  see 
If  it  is  n't  as  mellow  as  mellow  can  be  ! 
I  know  by  the  stripe 
It  must  be  ripe  !    " 
That  's  one  apiece  for  you  and  me. 

Green,  are  they  ?    Well,  no  matter  for  that. 
Sit  down  on  the  grass,  and  we  '11  have  a  chat ; 
And  I  '11  tell  you  what  old  Parson  Bute 
Said  last  Sunday  of  unripe  fruit. 

"  Life,"  says  he, 

"  Is  a  bountiful  tree, 
Heavily  laden  with  beautiful  fruit. 

"  For  the  youth  there  's  love,  just  streaked  with  red, 
And  great  joys  hanging  just  over  his  head  ; 


142  GREEN  APPLES. 

Happiness,  honor,  and  great  estate, 

For  those  who  patiently  work  and  wait ;  — 

Blessings,"  said  he, 

"  Of  every  degree, 
Ripening  early,  and  ripening  late. 

"  Take  them  in  season,  pluck  and  eat, 
And  the  fruit  is  wholesome,  the  fruit  is  sweet ; 
But,  0  my  friends!  — "     Here  he  gave  a  rap 
On  his  desk,  like  a  regular  thunder-clap, 

And  made  such  a  bang, 

Old  Deacon  Lang 
Woke  up  out  of  his  Sunday  nap. 

Green  fruit,  he  said,  God  would  not  bless ; 
But  half  life's  sorrow  and  bitterness, 
Half  the  evil  and  ache  and  crime, 
Came  from  tasting  before  their  time 

The  fruits  Heaven  sent. 

Then  on  he  went 
To  his  Fourthly  and  Fifthly :  —  was  n't  it  prime  ? 


GREEN  APPLES.  143 

But,  I  say,  Bob !   we  fellows  don't  care 

So  much  for  a  mouthful  of  apple  or  pear ; 

But  what  we  like  is  the  fun  of  the  thing, 

When  the  fresh  winds  blow,  and  the  hang-birds  bring 

Home  grubs,  and  sing 

To  their  young  ones,  a-swing 
In  their  basket-nest,  tied  up  by  its  string. 

I  like  apples  in  various  ways  : 

They  're  first-rate  roasted  before  the  blaze 

Of  a  winter  fire  ;    and,  0  my  eyes ! 

Are  n't  they  nice,  though,  made  into  pies  ? 

I  scarce  ever  saw 

One,  cooked  or  raw, 
That  was  n't  good  for  a  boy  of  my  size! 

But  shake  your  fruit  from  the  orchard  tree, 
And  the  tune  of  the  brook,  and  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
And  the  chipmonks  chippering  every  minute, 
And  the  clear  sweet  note  of  the  gay  little  linnet, 

And  the  grass  and  the  flowers, 

And  the  long  summer  hours, 
And  the  flavor  of  sun  and  breeze,  are  in  it. 


144  GREEN  APPLES. 

But  this  is  a  hard  one !    Why  did  n't  we 

Leave  them  another  week  on  the  tree  ? 

Is  yours  as  bitter?    Give  us  a  bite! 

The  pulp  is  tough,  and  the  seeds  are  white, 
And  the  taste  of  it  puckers 
My  mouth  like  a  sucker's  ! 

I  vow,  I  believe  the  old  parson  was  right ! 


STEAWBEERIES 

T  ITTLE  Pearl  Honeydew,  six  years  old, 

From  her  bright  ear  parted  the  curls  of  gold. 
And  laid  her  head  on  the  strawberry-bed, 
To  hear  what  the  red-cheeked  berries  said. 

Their  cheeks  were  blushing,  their  breath  was  sweet, 
She  could  almost  hear  their  little  hearts  beat ; 
And  the  tiniest  lisping,  whispering  sound 
That  ever  you  heard  came  up  from  the  ground. 

"  Little  friends,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  knew 
How  it  is  you  thrive  on  sun  and  dew ! " 
And  this  is  the  story  the  berries  told 
To  little  Pearl  Honeydew,  six  years  old. 

"  You  wish  you  knew  ?   and  so  do  we ! 
But  we  can't  tell  you,  unless  it  be 
That  the  same  kind  Power  that  cares  for  you 
Takes  care  of  poor  little  berries  too. 


146  STRAWBERRIES. 

"Tucked  up  snugly,  and  pestled  below 

Our  coverlid  of  wind-woven  snow, 

We  peep  and  listen,  all  winter  long, 

For  the  first  spring  day  and  the  bluebird's  song. 

"  When  the  swallows  fly  home  to  the  old  brown  shed, 
And  the  robins  build  on  the  bough  overhead, 
Then  out  from  the  mould,  from  the  darkness  and  cold, 
Blossom  and  runner  and  leaf  unfold. 

"  Good  children  then,  if  they  come  near, 
And  hearken  a  good  long  while,  may  hear 
A  wonderful  tramping  of  little  feet,  — 
So  fast  we  grow  in  the  summer  heat. 

"  Our  clocks  are  the  flowers  ;  and  they  count  the  hours 
Till  we  can  mellow  in  suns  and  showers, 
With  warmth  of  the  west-wind  and  heat  of  the  south, 
A  ripe  red  berry  for  a  ripe  red  mouth. 

"  Apple-blooms  whiten,  and  peach-blooms  fall, 
And  roses  are  gay  by  the  garden-wall, 
Ere  the  daisy's  dial  gives  the  sign 
That  we  can  invite  little  Pearl  to  dine. 


STRAWBERRIES.  147 

"  The  days  are  longest,  the  month  is  June, 
The  year  is  nearing  its  golden  noon, 
The  weather  is  fine,  and  our  feast  is  spread 
With  a  green  cloth  and  berries  red. 

"Just  take  us  betwixt  your  finger  and  thumb  — 
And  quick,  0  quick  !  for,  see !  there  come 
Tom  on  all-fours,  and  Martin  the  man, 
And  Margaret,  picking  as  fast  as  they  can  ! 

"  0  dear !  if  you  only  knew  how  it  shocks 
Nice  berries  like  us  to  be  sold  by  the  box, 
And  eaten  by  strangers,  and  paid  for  with  pelf, 
You  would  surely  take  pity,  and  eat  us  yourself!" 

And  this  is  the  story  the  small  lips  told 
To  dear  Pearl  Honeydew,  six  years  old, 
When  she  laid  her  head  on  the  strawberry-bed 
To  hear  what  the  red-cheeked  berries  said. 


THE    SUMMER    SQUALL. 

"  i~^  OODNESS  gracious  !    what  's  the  matter  ? 

What  a  clamor,  what  a  clatter ! 
Gracious  goodness !   was  there  ever 
Such  a  terrible  —  I  never  ! 
Run  and  shut  the  chamber  windows ! 
Jenny,  keep  the  children  in-doors! 
The  clothes  upon  the  line  go  dancing  — 
Where  's  the  basket  ?    Bring  the  pans  in  I 
0  dear!"    For  now  the  rain  is  coming; 
You  hear  the  chimney  swallows  drumming, 
With  a  mighty  fuss  and  flutter, 
While  the  chimneys  moan  and  mutter ; 
And  see!   the  crumbled  soot  is  flying 
All  over  the  pork  that  Jane  was  frying. 

What  a  clamor,  what  a  clatter  I 

^he  swift,  slant  rain  begins  to  patter ; 


THE   SUMMER   SQUALL.  149 

The  geese  they  cackle,  cow-bells  rattle, 
The  pelted  and  affrighted  cattle, 
Across  the  pasture,  helter-skelter, 
Kun  to  the  nearest  trees  for  shelter ; 
The  old  hen  calls  her  skulking  chickens  ; 
The  fowls  fly  home  ;   the  darkness  thickens  ; 
The  roadside  maples  twist  and  swing, 
The  barn-door  flaps  a  broken  wing ; 
The  old  well-pail  sets  out  to  travel, 
And  drags  the  chain  across  the  gravel ; 
In  vain  the  farmer's  wife  is  trying 
To  catch  the  clothes  as  they  are  flying ; 
Nine  new  tin  pans  are  bruised  and  battered, 
And  all  about  the  door-yard  scattered  ; 
And  thicker,  thicker,  faster,  faster, 
Come  tumult,  tempest,  and  disaster. 

The  wind  has  blown  the  haycocks  over  ; 
The  rain  has  spoiled  the  unraked  clover ; 
With  half  a  load  the  horses  hurry, 
And  one  half — flung  on  in  the  flurry, 
Invisible  pitchforks  tearing,  tossing  — 


150  THE   SUMMER   SQUALL. 

Was  blown  into  the  creek  in  crossing; 
And  thicker,  thicker,  faster,  faster, 
Come  whirlwind,  tempest,  and  disaster. 

Now,  all  without  the  storm  is  roaring, 

The  house  is  shut,  the  rain  is  pouring ; 

Incessantly  its  fury  lashes 

The  roof,  the  clapboards,  and  the  sashes  ; 

The  fowls  have  gone  to  roost  at  noon, 

We  '11  have  the  candles  lighted  soon. 

In  flies  the  door,  —  the  farmer  enters 

Dripping  and  drenching  from  his  adventures  ; 

Finds  Jenny  sighing,  baby  crying, 

The  frightened  children  hushed,  and  lying 

Huddled  upon  the  bed  together  ; 

Mother  storming,  like  the  weather  ; 

With  pans,  and  chairs,  and  baskets,  which  in 

Wet  confusion  crowd  the  kitchen. 

But  Hugh  is  not  the  man  to  grieve  ; 

He  shakes  his  hat,  and  strokes  his  sleeve, 

And  laughs,  and  jests,  and  wrings  his  blouse  ; 


THE  SUMMER   SQUALL.  151 

His  very  presence  in  the  house 

Dispels  like  sunshine  the  bewildering 

And  awful  gloom  that  wrapped  the  children. 

Old  Farmer  Hugh  !    the  whole  world  through, 

I  find  no  nobler  soul  than  you! 

A  heart  to  welcome  every  comer, 

Alike  the  Winter  and  the  Summer. 

When  Fortune,  with  her  fickle  chances, 

Now  smiles,  now  frowns,  retreats,  advances, 

To  make  poor  mortals  mourn  the  loss  of  her, 

You,  trustful  heart  and  true  philosopher, 

Securely  centred  in  your  station, 

Yourself  the  pivot  of  gyration, 

Look  forth  serenely  patient,  seeing 

All  things  come  round  to  your  true  being. 

0  thus,  like  you,  when  sudden  squalls 

Of  angry  fortune  strike  my  walls, 

Spoil  expectation's  unraked  clover, 

And  blow  my  hopes  like  haycocks  over,  — 

When  storm  and  darkness,  wild,  uncertain, 

Deluge  my  sky  with  their  black  curtain, — 


152  THE   SUMMER   SQUALL. 

0  then,  like  you,  brave  Farmer  Hugh  I 
May  I,  with  vision  clear  and  true, 
Behold,  beyond  each  transient  sorrow, 
The  gleam  and  gladness  of  to-morrow. 


CORN    HARVEST. 

npHE  fields  are  filled  with  a  smoky  haze. 

The  golden  spears 

Of  the  ripening1  ears 

Peep  from  the  crested  and  pennoned  maize. 
All  down  the  rustling  rows  are  rolled 
The  portly  pumpkins,  green  and  gold. 

Altogether 

;T  is  very  fine  weather, 
Just  as  the  almanac  foretold. 

In  early  summer  the  brigand  crow 

Made  ruthless  raids 

On  the  sprouting  blades  ; 

The  weeds  fought  long  with  the  farmer's  hoe ; 
And  the  raccoons  and  squirrels  have  had  their  share 
Of  all  but  the  good  man's  toil  and  care  ;  — 

The  shy  field-mouse 

Has  filled  her  house, 
And   the   blackbirds   are   flocking   from  no  one  knows 

where. 

7* 


154  CORN  HARVEST. 

But  now  bis  time  has  come  :   hurrah ! 

To  the  field,  lads!  to-day 

Our  work  will  be  play. 

Let  the  blackbirds  scream,  and  the  mad  crows  caw, 
And  the  squirrels  scold  on  the  wild-cherry  limb,  — 
We  '11  take  from  the  robbers  that  took  from  him ! 

Come  along,  one  and  all,  boys ! 

Big  boys  and  small  boys, 
Long-armed  Amos,  and  Joel,  and  Jim ! 

Bring  sickles  to  reap,  or  blades  to  strike. 

Before  they  have  lost 

In  sun  and  frost 

The  nourishing  juices  the  cattle  like, 
Sucker  and  stalk  must  be  cut  from  the  hill ; 
Surround  them,  and  bend   them,  then  hit  with  a  will ! 

Left  standing  too  long, 

They  grow  woody  and  strong; 
The  corn  in  the  stook  will  ripen  still. 

Carry  your  stroke,  lads,  close  to  the  ground. 
Set  the  stalks  upright, 
And  pack  them  tight 


CORN  HARVEST.  155 

In  pyramids  shapely  and  stately  and  round. 
Give  the  old  lady's  skirts  a  genteel  spread  ; 
Slope  well  the  shoulders,  so  as  to  shed 

The  autumn  rain 

From  the  unhusked  grain, 
Then  twist  a  wisp  for  the  queer  little  head. 

There  she  is,  waiting  to  be  embraced ! 

Reach  round  her  who  can  ? 

'T  will  take  a  man 

And  a  boy,  at  least,  to  clasp  her  waist ! 
Was  ever  a  hug  like  that  ?     Now  draw 
Tightly  the  girdle  of  good  oat-straw! 

With  the  plumpest  waist 

That  ever  was  laced, 
Goes  the  narrowest  nightcap  ever  you  saw. 

We  bind  the  corn,  and  leave  it  snug, 

Or  rest  in  the  shade 

Of  the  shocks  we  have  made, 
To  eat  our  luncheon,  and  drink  from  the  jug. 
The  children  come  bringing  the  bauds,  or  play 
Hide-au d-go-seek  in  the  corn  all  day, 


156  CORN  HARVEST. 

And  now  and  then  race 
With  a  chipmonk,  or  chase 
A  scared  little  field-mouse  scampering  away. 

All  day  we  cut  and  bind  ;    till  at  night,  — 

Where  a  field  of  corn  in 

The  misty  morning 

Waved,  in  the  level  September  light,  — 
All  over  the  shadowy  stubble-land, 
The  stocks,  like  Indian  wigwams,  stand. 

Compact  and  secure, 

There  leave  them  to  cure, 
Till  the  merry  husking-time  is  at  hand.. 

Then  the  fodder  will  be  to  stack  or  to  house, 

And  the  ears  to  husk. 

But  now  the  dusk 

Falls  soft  as  the  shadows  of  cool  pine-boughs ; 
Our  good  day's  work  is  done;   the  night 
Brings  wholesome  fatigue  and  appetite  ; 

Up  comes  the  balloon 

Of  the  huge  red  moon, 
And  home  we  go,  singing  gay  songs  by  its  light. 


THE    LITTLE    THEATRE. 

T  KNOW  a  little  theatre 

Scarce  bigger  than  a  nut. 
Finer  than  pearl  its  portals  are, 
Quick  as  the  twinkling  of  a  star 
They  open  and  they  shut. 

A  fairy  palace  beams  within : 

So  wonderful  it  is, 

No  words  can  tell  you  of  its  worth, — 
No  architect  in  all  the  earth 

Could  build  a  house  like  this. 

A  beautiful  rose  window  lets 

A  ray  into  the  hall ; 

To  shade  the  scene  from  too  much  light, 
A  tiny  curtain  hangs  in  sight, 
/    Within  the  crystal  wall. 


158  THE  LITTLE  THEATRE. 

And  0  the  wonders  there  beside! 

The  curious  furniture, 
The  stage,  with  all  its  small  machinery, 
Pulley  and  cord  and  shifting  scenery, 

in  marvellous  miniature! 

A  little,  busy,  moving  world, 

It  mimics  space  and  time, 
The  marriage-feast,  the  funeral, 
Old  men  and  little  children,  all 
In  perfect  pantomime. 

There  pours  the  foaming-  cataract, 
There  speeds  the  train  of  cars ; 
Day  comes  with  all  its  pageantry 
Of  cloud  and  mountain,  sky  and  sea, 
The  night,  with  all  its  stars. 

Ships  sail  upon  that  mimic  sea ; 

And  smallest  things  that  fly, 
The  humming-bird,  the  sunlit  mote 
Upon  its  golden  wings  afloat, 

Are  mirrored  in  that  sky. 


THE   LITTLE   THEATRE.  159 

Quick  as  the  twinkling  of  the  doors, 

The  scenery  forms  or  fades; 
And  all  the  fairy  folk  that  dwell 
Within  the  arched  and  windowed  shell 

Are  momentary  shades. 

Who  has  this  wonder  holds  it  dear 

As  his  own  life  and  limb  ; 
Who  lacks  it,  not  the  rarest  gem 
That  ever  flashed  in  diadem 

Can  purchase  it  for  him. 

Ah,  then,  dear  picture-loving  child, 

How  doubly  blessed  art  thou ! 
Since,  thine  the  happy  fortune  is 
To  have  two  little  worlds  like  this 

In  thy  possession  now, — 

Each  furnished  with  soft  folding-doors, 

A  curtain,  and  a  stage  1 
And  now.  a  laughing  sprite  transfers 
Into  those  little  theatres 

The  letters  of  this  page. 


THE    CHARCOALMAN. 

i. 

rpHOUGH  rudely  blows  the  wintry  blast,  ' 

And  sifting  snows  fall  white  and  fast, 
Mark  Haley  drives  along  the  street, 
Perched  high  upon  his  wagon  seat ; 
His  sombre  face  the  storm  defies, 
And  thus  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, 

"  Charco' !   charco'  I  " 
While  echo  faint  and  far  replies, 

"Hark,  0!    hark,  0!" 

"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Hark,  0!"  — Such  cheery  sounds 
Attend  him  on  his  daily  rounds. 

n. 

The  dust  begrimes  his  ancient  hat; 
His  coat  is  darker  far  than  that ; 
'T  is  odd  to  see  his  sooty  form 
All  speckled  with  the  feathery  storm  ; 
Yet  in  his  honest  bosom  lies 


THE   CHARCOALMAN.  161 

Nor  spot  nor  speck,  though  still  he  cries, 

"  Charco' !    charco'!" 
While  many  a  roguish  lad  replies, 

"  Ark,  ho  !    ark,  ho  !  " 

"Charco'!"  —  "Ark,  ho!"  —  Such  various  sounds 
Announce  Mark  Haley's  morning  rounds. 

ra. 

Thus  all  the  cold  and  wintry  day 
He  labors  much  for  little  pay  ; 
Yet  feels  no  less  of  happiness 
Than  many  a  richer  man,  I  guess, 
When  through  the  shades  of  eve  he  spies 
The  light  of  his  own  home,  and  cries, 

"  Charco' !.  charco' !" 
And  Martha  from  the  door  replies, 

"Mark,  ho!   Mark,  ho!" 

"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Mark,  ho  !  "  —  Such  joy  abounds 
When  he  has  closed  his  daily  rounds  ! 

IV. 

The  hearth  is  warm,  the  fire  is  bright ; 

And  while  his  hand,  washed  clean  and  white, 


162  THE   CHARCOALMAN. 

Holds  Martha's  tender  hand  once  more, 
His  glowing  face  bends  fondly  o'er 
The  crib  wherein  his  darling  lies, 
And  in  a  coaxing  tone  he  cries, 

"  Charco'!    charco'  !  " 
And  baby  with  a  laugh  replies, 

"Ah,  go!   ah,  go!" 

"  Charco'  I"  —  "  Ah,  go  !  "  —  while  at  the  sounds 
The  mother's  heart  with  gladness  bounds. 
/ 

v. 

Then  honored  be  the  charcoalman, 
Though  dusky  as  an  African  ! 
'T  is  not  for  you  that  chance  to  be 
A  little  better  clad  than  he 
His  honest  manhood  to  despise,  — 
Although  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, 

"  Charco' !  charco' !  " 
While  mocking  echo  still  replies, 

"  Hark,  0  !   hark,  0  !  " 

"  Charco'  !  "  —  "  Hark,  0  ! "  —  Long  may  the  sounds 
Proclaim  Mark  Haley's  daily  rounds  I 


THE    WONDERFUL    SACK. 

rilHE  apple-boughs  half  hid  the  house 

Where  lived  the  lonely  widow  ; 
Behind  it  stood  the  chestnut  wood, 
Before  it  spread  the  meadow. 

She  had  no  money  in  her  till, 
She  was  too  poor  to  borrow  ; 

With  her  lame  leg  she  could  not  beg  ; 
And  no  one  cheered  her  sorrow. 

Her  best  black  gown  was  faded  brown, 
Her  shoes  were  all  in  tatters, 

With  not  a  pair  for  Sunday  wear : 
Said  she,  "It  little  matters! 

"  Nobody  asks  me  now  to  ride, 
My  garments  are  not  fitting ; 

And  with  my  crutch  I  care  not  much 
To  hobble  off'  to  meeting. 


164  THE  WONDERFUL   SACK. 

"  T  still  preserve  my  Testament, 

And  though  the  Acts  are  missing, 
And  Luke  is  torn,  and  Hebrews  worn, 

On  Sunday  't  is  a  blessing. 

"And  other  days  I  open  it 

Before  me  on  the  table, 
And  there  I  sit,  and  read,  and  knit, 

As  long  as  I  am  able." 

One  evening  she  had  closed  the  book, 

But  still  she  sat  there  knitting ; 
"  Meow-meow  !  "  complained  the  old  black  cat ; 

"Mew-mew!"  the  spotted  kitten. 

And  on  the  hearth,  with  sober  mirth, 
"  Chirp,  chirp  !  "  replied  the  cricket. 

'T  was  dark, — but  hark!    "  Bow-ow  !  "   the  bark 
Of  Ranger  at  the  wicket ! 

Is  Ranger  barking  at  the  moon  ? 

Or  what  can  be  the  matter? 
What  trouble  now?    "Bow-ow!    bow-ow!" — 

She  hears  the  old  gate  clatter. 


THE   WONDERFUL   SACK.  165 

"  It  is  the  wind  that  bangs  the  gate, 

And  I  must  knit  my  stocking ! " 
But  hush!  —  what  's  that?   Rat-tat!  rat-tat! 

Alas !    there  's  some  one  knocking  ! 

"Dear  me!   dear  me!    who  can  it  be? 

Where,  where  is  my  crutch-handle  ?  " 
She  rubs  a  match  with  hasty  scratch  ; 

She  cannot  light  the  candle ! 

Rat-tat !    scratch,  scratch !    the  worthless  match  ! 

The  cat  growls  in  the  corner. 
Rat-tat !   scratch,  scratch  !     Up  flies  the  latch,  — 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Warner!" 

X 

Blue  burns  at  last  the  tardy  match, 

And  dim  the  candle  glimmers  ; 
Along  the  floor  beside  the  door 

The  cold  white  moonlight  shimmers. 

The  old  cat's  tail  ruffs  big  and  black, 

Loud  barks  the  old  dog  Ranger ; 
The  kitten  spits  and  lifts  her  back, 

Her  eyes  glare  on  the  stranger. 


166  THE  WONDERFUL  SACK. 

His  limbs  are  strong,  his  beard  is  long, 

His  hair  is  dark  and  wavy  ; 
Upon  his  back  he  bears  a  sack  ; 

His  staff  is  stout  and  heavy. 

"  My  way  is  lost,  and  with  the  frost 

I  feel  my  fingers  tingle." 
Then  from  his  back  he  slips  the  sack,  — 

Ho  I    did  you  hear  it  jingle  ? 

"  Nay,  keep  your  chair !    while  you  sit  there, 

I  ;11  take  the  other  corner." 
"  I  'm  sorry,  sir,  I  have  no  fire." 

"  No  matter,  Mrs.  Warner." 

He  shakes  his  sack,  —  the  magic  each; ! 

Amazed  the  widow  gazes  : 
Ho,  ho !  the  chimney  's  full  of  wood ! 

Ha,  ha !    the  wood  it  blazes  I 

Ho,  ho !  ha,  ha !   the  merry  fire ! 

It  sputters  and  it  crackles ! 
Snap,  snap  !   flash,  flash !    old  oak  and  ash 

Send  out  a  million  sparkles. 


THE   WONDERFUL  SACK. 

The  stranger  sits  upon  his  sack 

Beside  the  chimney-corner, 
And  rubs  his  hands  before  the  brands, 

And  smiles  on  Mrs.  Warner. 

She  feels  her  heart  beat  fast  with  fear, 
But  what  can  be  the  danger? 

"Can  I  do  aught  for  you,  kind  sir?" 
"  I  'm  hungry,"  quoth  the  stranger. 

"Alas!"  she  said,  "I  have  no  food 

For  boiling  or  for  baking  !  " 
11 1  Ve  food,"  quoth  he,  "  for  you  and  me 

And  gave  his  sack  a  shaking. 

Out  rattled  knives,  and  forks,  and  spoons, 
Twelve  eggs,  potatoes  plenty, 

One  large  soup-dish,  two  plates  of  fish, 
And  bread  enough  for  twenty. 


And  Rachel,  calming  her  surprise, 
As  well  as  she  was  able, 

Saw,  following  these,  two  roasted 
A  tea-nrn,  and  a  table. 


168  THE  WONDERFUL  SACK. 

Strange,  was  it  not  ?  each  dish  was  hot, 

Not  even  a  plate  was  broken ; 
The  cloth  was  laid,  and  all  arrayed, 

Before  a  word  was  spoken. 

"  Sit  up !   sit  up  !   and  we  will  sup, 
Dear  madam,  while  we  're  able." 

Said  she,  "  The  room  is  poor  and  small 
For  such  a  famous  table." 

Again  the  stranger  shakes  the  sack, 

The  walls  begin  to  rumble  ; 
Another  shake  !   the  rafters  quake  ! 

You  'd  think  the  roof  would  tumble. 

Shake,  shake !   the  room  grows  high  and  large, 

The  walls  are  painted  over ; 
Shake,  shake !   out  fall  four  chairs,  in  all, 

A  bureau,  and  a  sofa. 

The  stranger  stops  to  wipe  the  drops 
That  down  his  face  are  streaming. 

"  Sit  up  !  sit  up  !  and  we  will  sup," 
Quoth  he,  "  while  all  is  steaming." 


THE  WONDERFUL   SACK.  169 

The  widow  hobbled  on  her  crutch, 

He  kindly  sprang  to  aid  her. 
"All  this,"  said  she,  "is  too  much  for  me!" 

Quoth  he,  "  We  '11  have  a  waiter." 

Shake,  shake,  once  more !   and  from  the  sack 

Out  popped  a  little  fellow, 
With  elbows  bare,  bright  eyes,  sleek  hair, 

And  trousers  striped  with  yellow. 

His  legs  were  short,  his  body  plump, 

His  cheek  was  like  a  cherry  ; 
He  tiirned  three  times  ;    he  gave  a  jump ; 

His  laugh  rang  loud  and  merry. 

He  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 
And  scraped  and  bowed  so  handy ! 

"Your  humble  servant,  sir,"  he  said, 
Like  any  little  dandy. 

The  widow  laughed  a  long,  loud  laugh, 

And  up  she  started,  screaming  ; 
When  ho !   and  lo  !   the  room  was  dark !  — 

She  'd  been  asleep  and  dreaming  1 


170  THE  WONDERFUL   SACK. 

The  stranger  and  his  magic  sack, 

The  dishes  and  the  fishes, 
The  geese  and  things,  had  taken  wings, 

Like  riches,  or  like  witches! 

All,  all  was  gone  !    She  sat  alone ; 

Her  hands  had  dropped  their  knitting. 
"  Meow-meow !  "  the  cat  upon  the  mat ; 

"  Mew-mew  I   mew-mew  !  "   the  kitten. 

The  hearth  is  bleak,  —  and  hark  I    the  creak, 
"  Chirp,  chirp  !  "  the  lonesome  cricket. 

. "  Bow-ow  ! "   says  Ranger  to  the  moon  ; 
The  wind  is  at  the  wicket. 

And  still  she  sits,  and  as  she  knits 

She  ponders  o'er  the  vision  : 
"  I  saw  it  written  on  the  sack,  — 

'  A  CHEERFUL  DISPOSITION/ 

"  I  know  God  sent  the  dream,  and  meant 

To  teach  this  useful  lesson, 
That  out  of  peace  and  pure  content 

Springs  every  earthly  blessing." 


THE  WONDERFUL   SACK.  171 

Said  she,  "I  '11  make  the  sack  my  own! 

I  '11  shake  away  all  sorrow  !  " 
She  shook  the  sack  for  me  to-day ; 

She  '11  shake  for  you  to-morrow. 

She  shakes  out  hope ;   and  joy,  and  peace, 

And  happiness  come  after  : 
She  shakes  out  smiles  for  all  the  world  ; 

She  shakes  out  love  and  laughter. 

For  poor  and  rich,  —  no  matter  which,  — 

For  young  folks  or  for  old  folks, 
For  strong  and  weak,  for  proud  and  meek, 

For  warm  folks  and  for  cold  folks  ; 

For  children  coming  home  from  school, 

And  sometimes  for  the  teacher  ; 
For  white  and  black  she  shakes  the  sack, — 

In  short,  for  every  creature. 

And  everybody  who  has  grief, 

The  sufferer  and  the  mourner, 
From  far  and  near,  come  now  to  hear 

Kind  words  from  Mrs.  Warner. 


172  THE   WONDERFUL   SACK. 

They  go  to  her  with  heavy  hearts, 
They  come  away  with  light  ones  ; 

They  go  to  her  with  cloudy  brows, 

They  come  away  with  bright  ones.  , 

All  love  her  well,  and  I  could  tell 

Of  many  a  cheering  present 
Of  fruits  and  things  their  friendship  brings, 

To  make  her  fireside  pleasant. 

She  always  keeps  a  cheery  fire ; 

The  house  is  painted  over  ; 
She  has  food  in  store,  and  chairs  for  four, 

A  bureau,  and  a  sofa. 

She  says  these  seem  just  like  her  dream, 

And  tells  again  the  vision : 
"  I  saw  it  written  on  the  sack,  — 

'A  Cheerful  Disposition!'" 

THE    END. 
I 

Cambridge  :   Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Ca 


UNIVEli  MFORNIA, 

AT 


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